


Intents and Pursuits

by revealing



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted Seduction, Bard Blatantly and Optimistically Disregards the Bonds of Matrimony: A Saga, Based on a fanart by drenched_in_sunlight on Tumblr, Canon Divergence, Court Drama, Established Relationship, Family Issues, M/M, Misconceptions, Old Married Couple Struggles With Being Old and Being Married, POV Alternating, Pining, Post-The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Relationship Problems, The Geralt/Dandelion is mostly in Dandelion's head
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 55,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24064849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revealing/pseuds/revealing
Summary: Dandelion the bard has a thing for married royalty, particularly of the beautiful and neglected variety, and this time he has his sights set on his biggest and riskiest conquest yet: the Emperor Consort of Nilfgaard and husband of Emperor Emhyr var Emreis, witcher Geralt of Rivia. Meanwhile, Geralt and Emhyr are struggling to keep their marriage from breaking under the pressure of duty to the Empire, future Empress Ciri is more involved in her fathers' messes than she'd like to be, and the Imperial Court of Nilfgaard is enjoying the drama.
Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 166
Kudos: 400





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a canon divergence AU where Geralt and Dandelion never met, and Geralt and Emhyr gradually (and tumultuously) fell in love and got married after Witcher 3's Empress Ciri game ending (amidst an Emhyr redemption arc). It is based on the video game and may not be book compliant.
> 
> This story is based on [a fanart](https://drenched-in-sunlight.tumblr.com/post/615571340011978752/so-i-joked-about-how-dandelion-would-still) by [drenched-in-sunlight](https://drenched-in-sunlight.tumblr.com). Thank you for letting me play with your lovely idea! 
> 
> There is [a Chinese translation/中文翻译](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25461322) of this fic by [TheFirstRashomon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFirstRashomon).

The weather is perfect on the afternoon of the annual Nilfgaardian Bardic Competition, the late spring sun and breeze too good to waste, and Geralt is trapped in a fancy ballroom trying not to groan or fall asleep during the ceremonial bullshit. He's gotten better at putting up with ridiculous rituals and events during his five years as Emperor Consort of the Nilfgaardian Empire, but he hasn't started hating them any less. He'd skip all the damn things if he could, run like hell from anything Emhyr calls _An Occasion_ , but that didn't work out so well the first time he tried it. The Emperor's chamberlain Mererid, a stuffy man who addresses Geralt in the third person, told him it was _a grave insult to the people and culture of Nilfgaard and will result in severe consequences for someone_. And since Geralt's not out to insult a decent chunk of the continent and cause vague consequences, the first time he tried going out a window to escape a court function was also the last one. He used to have no problem saying where frilly customs could get shoved and staying far away from affairs of state, but then he married a head of state and couldn't keep telling everything to get stuffed. So here Geralt is, on a glorious day to go hunting or riding or anywhere with fresh air, stuck inside and bored to death. 

"Rule 21," drones the government minister reading the competition regulations off a scroll the size of a warg's tail, and Geralt tunes him out again. Ciri's sitting in the throne next to him in the front of the room; usually she's on the other side of Emhyr, but today the head judge got that spot. Geralt turns to see if she's as bored as he is, because his daughter doesn't love this show and tradition nonsense any more than he does, but she's doing an impressive job of pretending she gives half a shit about what's happening. Acting lessons must be part of her training as future Empress of Nilfgaard. 

"The winner is the bard that stays awake until the end of the rules," Geralt mutters to Ciri, and she muffles a laugh. 

"Silence," Emhyr commands under his breath, almost too quiet for a human to hear, but Geralt's enhanced witcher hearing picks it up loud and clear. Geralt shoots Emhyr a look that makes it clear how he feels about being given an order – pissed off – but the Emperor won't glance at him. Not even with Geralt staring with the intensity of the sun at the side of his head. He keeps gazing impassively out at the nobles and bards and finery packing the ballroom in front of him. Geralt lets out a huff, not the most mature reaction, and still goes ignored. It's funny, the way Emhyr's focus and composure are two of the qualities Geralt finds most attractive and most irritating about his husband.

"Rule 23," the minister is saying, and his voice would be great background noise if Geralt wasn't desperate to find out how many rules there are and when they'll end. Every damn year they add more. 

One of the bards catches Geralt's eye, a man with brown hair and a wispy moustache and goatee in a horrible pink and teal outfit and feathered hat. He gives Geralt a look that says he's not thrilled by the long speech either and a sympathetic nod, and Geralt gives him a small nod back. The bard grins, then makes a mockingly fascinated face at the minister's back, and Geralt has to keep from snorting in amusement. If he didn't have to worry about etiquette, which feels like getting constantly stabbed in the soul with needles after a life spent disregarding and scoffing at anything _proper_ , he'd grin back at the bard. He thought he'd never feel like a man in a giant plumed hat understood him, but it seems like he was wrong. He'd also thought he'd never fall in love with Emhyr var Emreis and marry him and get stuck with an Empire, so he's been wrong before. 

"The grand prize," the minister announces, his voice suddenly full of drama. The bards perk up like dogs about to be fed, most looking eager and some looking desperate, because they already know what the prize is. Everyone does. "One hundred florens, the title of Nilfgaardian Bardic Competition Champion, and a month as bard in residence at the Imperial Court of His Imperial Majesty, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd, Emperor Emhyr var Emreis." 

The bard in the awful fuschia outfit smirks confidently at Geralt, and Geralt's got to admit he's rooting for this one. The other bards are dressed in more drab and dignified clothes, almost leaking nervousness and excitement, unlike the brown haired man looking cocky and self-assured in his layers of flashy jewelry and jaunty hat. If Geralt had to pick one of the contestants to stick around for a month, he could picture court functions being a little more bearable with that one there. 

"The competition shall begin," Emhyr says, in the voice he uses for Imperious Proclamations. "Victory to the best bard." 

It's a funny story how Dandelion ended up entering the Nilfgaardian Bardic Competition. Practically preposterous, really. 

It all began when he was making a hasty escape from the home of a Liddertalian noblewoman he was unaware was married – hadn't inquired, for the information was irrelevant – and lept out of a window, forced to do up his trousers in midair. Quite unfortuitously, he landed on the ground outside the house directly beside a group of soldiers from the Nilfgaardian army. They proved themselves to be uncultured swine when they mistook him – him, Dandelion the bard, a poet and performer of great fame and renown! – for one of the empire's most wanted criminals in disguise, and unjustly arrested him with the intent of dragging him to the City of Nilfgaard to rot in prison. For a normal man all might be lost, but Dandelion is a brilliant strategist. He convinced them of the case of mistaken identity in an ingenious fashion, coaxing them into allowing him to play his lute and sing while they marched him through the town square _to lift the spirits of the populace and thereby stoke positive sentiment toward the army of the empire_ , and watched his fans and admirers to flock to his side to vouch for his identity and plead for his freedom. The Nilfgaardian soldiers released Dandelion from custody just in time to catch sight of the real criminal across the square and apprehend him, in a twist so perfect he could have written it himself. They then offered him transportation to the City of Nilfgaard for the Bardic Competition taking place at the Imperial Palace if he swore not to turn their blunder into a widely spread ballad. Dandelion, never one to turn down a chance to perform or receive acclaim and prizes, found this bargain agreeable and accepted. The main prize was of no interest to him, as he had no desire to spend a month in the doubtless stodgy court of the White Flame, but the bragging rights and money that winning the title would confer upon him were too great to pass up. 

As soon as Dandelion's eyes fell on the Emperor Consort of Nilfgaard, however, he realized the true reason he had ended up in the Imperial Palace: fate had aligned to bring him here, to Geralt of Rivia. 

The Emperor Consort is dashingly handsome, a truly fine specimen, more alluring even than Dandelion himself. Without exaggeration, he is the most devastatingly attractive man Dandelion has come across in his promiscuous life. He'd heard the Emperor had wed and crowned a witcher, as it had caused quite a stir in less forward-thinking areas of the Continent, but he hadn't been prepared for how stunning that witcher's features would be. His Majesty Geralt of Rivia has hair as soft and pale as pure silk and eyes the color of a citrine gemstone in firelight, one framed by a striking scar whose enticing ruggedness leaves Dandelion wanting nothing more than to sing of the brutal fight that left its cruel mark on the flawless man. Geralt – should Dandelion be so bold as to call His Majesty that, even within the privacy of his head – looks absolutely resplendent in his white garments and gold jewelry that perfectly complements his mesmerising eyes. The only way he could look more gorgeous, in fact, is if he were closer to Dandelion. 

"Dandelion," the minister facilitating the contest announces, after Dandelion has judged and inwardly sighed through the performances of five bards lesser than he – not lacking in talent, of course, merely below him in substance and style and skill – and finally his moment of glory has arrived to be seized. 

Dandelion looks directly into Geralt's catlike eyes as he sends the first melodic strum of his lute through the ballroom, hushed in anticipation of his performance. He doesn't expect the Emperor Consort to meet and hold his gaze, but, ah, then again, he does strike Dandelion as a man of taste. There's a spark of life in his eyes, unlike earlier, when the witcher had appeared nearly ruined by boredom – to say nothing of the tension clearly building between him and the Emperor. It paints a tragic picture that saddens Dandelion deeply: an exquisite and powerful slayer of beasts plucked from his heroic Path and forced to sit silently and idly by the side of his pompous and dismissive husband through whatever the metaphorical crown on his burdened head demands of him. Dandelion could conceive of no more lamentable a tale in his most sorrowful ballads. An idea occurs to Dandelion then: perhaps he can help. Perhaps through his music and his charm and his excellent companionship he can keep that light in His Majesty's eyes. 

And so Dandelion sings his first song to Geralt. He sings to him and of him, though until this moment, he had not known his lyrics penned years ago spoke of the Emperor Consort of Nilfgaard. He pours his heart and soul into every croon of his voice and pluck of his lute strings, a tear-inducing ballad about a man with an aching spirit yearning to be wanted, hoping it touches a lonely place inside the Emperor Consort and makes him feel understood. When Dandelion concludes, even some of the other bards are nearly on the verge of weeping. And because fate arranged these circumstances just for him, Dandelion isn't the slightest bit surprised when the results of the first round are announced. 

"Entering the second round with a perfect score of 30 points," the droll minister calls out, "Dandelion." 

It all becomes a blur after that; as a true artist, Dandelion becomes so consumed by his performances that he slips into a place where time doesn't exist, nothing in the world but himself and his audience and the song. In the second round, Dandelion sings of a man who has fallen for someone close to him but yet far out of reach. In the third round, of a forbidden love with endless potential but afraid to blossom. In the semi-final, an upbeat ode of devotion and praise for someone worthy of all the precious jewels on the Continent. And in the final, Dandelion pulls out all the stops. He sings a ballad of longing, of hope, of promises to a potential lover that if they give him a chance he will make them the happiest person who has ever to live and ensure they never cry another tear for the rest of their days. Through it all he serenades Geralt the way he should be serenaded, whether or not he knows Dandelion's songs are for him and whether or not he knows he deserves them. Due to the circumstances of Dandelion's journey and his last-minute arrival he hadn't prepared and is simply winging his set list from the best and most fitting pieces in his repertoire, and it's working out for him. He's used his newly and quickly developed feelings about Geralt to choose his songs and fuel his performances, the final one most of all – this is the song that will secure Dandelion a place by the Emperor Consort's side for a month, and he knows it. With fate on his side, there's no way he can lose. 

And he doesn't. 

Dandelion is expecting it, anticipating it, bracing himself to hear it, when the judges conclude their deliberation and announce the winners. He only half listens to the third and second place bards' names and point totals, waiting for what he knows in his very veins and bones is coming – 

"First place, with 145 points, winner of the grand prize and title of Nilfgaardian Bardic Competition Champion, newest bard in residence at the Imperial Court of His Imperial Majesty, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd, Emperor Emhyr var Emreis – Dandelion!" 

Dandelion smiles and bows and waves to the adoring crowd, the assembled nobles and bards and judges and royals, but most of all the heartwrenchingly beautiful witcher who's wrenched the poet's own heart from his chest, whose name he feels must be written somewhere in the core of his being – His Majesty Emperor Consort Geralt of Rivia. As Dandelion feels his stolen heart flutter, Geralt smiles back. 

Perhaps this is more than fate. Perhaps it is destiny. 

Not only did Dandelion win, he discovers while meeting with the judging panel and palace staff after the conclusion of the contest, he won with the highest score ever awarded in the Nilfgaardian Bardic Competition's history. He won so spectacularly that, in his Oxenfurt-educated opinion, the judges were perhaps a little more generous than necessary with the second and third place bards' final round scores to keep the whole affair from being an absolute runaway victory. It is, by far, Dandelion's most impressive contest triumph yet. Florens, accolades, titles, glory – all pleasing, but what matters most is that his success is the key to the man who inspired him to such astounding and rapturous heights. 

Dandelion drinks too much at the party that follows, part victory celebration and part occasion for the most important people in Nilfgaard to see and be seen, play the fascinating game of social politics and cunningly maneuver their way into greater influence. It becomes a haze of alcohol pressed into his hands and streams of well-deserved compliments from admirers and request from party attendees to reprise the songs that made him the guest of honor at the festivities. He's caught up in it all, the foggy rush of drink and adrenaline and attention, and when he finally remembers to look up at the several outlines of each blurry throne he sees the royal couple is gone. A brief but powerful disappointment rushes through Dandelion at the sight of the empty seat where the entrancing Emperor Consort was, the first disappointment he's felt since he hatched his marvelous plan to be freed from Nilfgaardian captivity – but no matter. He'll converse with Geralt sooner or later – likely sooner, if the universe's machinations continue at their present pace – and it's certainly wiser to hold their first conversation when he's sober and has his sharp and clever wits about him. 

Without the opinion of the majestic witcher to consider, the victorious bard proceeds to celebrate himself into a state of drunkenness so utter and profound that a palace attendant has to assist him in stumbling – gracefully, of course – to his new quarters and removing what clothing he had not already divested himself of on the walk to his chambers. It's delightful, having access to _staff_ ; it reminds him of his own days of full-time nobility, and short-term live-in sexual arrangements he's had with wealthy and powerful people. Dandelion will get his chance to meet the aforementioned majestic witcher before too long, he knows, because destiny or an imperial event coordinator will arrange it. He'll get his chance to put a smile on the lovely Emperor Consort's face, to spark a joy and softness in His Majesty's eyes, and keep them there until Geralt of Rivia realizes that he – Dandelion the bard, poet and lover and perfect paramour – should be the one to finally bring him happiness. 

Several packed bags are waiting for Emhyr back in his chambers.

"Going somewhere?" Geralt asks, when Emhyr releases his hand and crosses the opulent sitting room to the baggage. The two of them had walked back to the Emperor's apartments in silence after parting with Cirilla, their daughter and future Empress choosing to remain at the celebration following the Bardic Competition after Emhyr and Geralt's departure a half hour into the festivities. Geralt hadn't requested an explanation for their early egress, drained from an extended day of using the limited reserves of his patience to keep his rough edges contained within the confines of the strict social mold imposed upon him, so Emhyr hadn't offered him one. That decision is seeming unwise to him now. Geralt's eyes had filled with gratitude when Emhyr took his hand and led him wordlessly off his throne and out of the ballroom through a back door, but the open softness of his expression grew closed off as soon as he saw the bags. 

"Yes. There is a contentious situation brewing in Gemmera – they have begun a dispute with Ebbing that, if not mediated, could lead to disruptions in trade and closures of mines at best, armed conflict at worst. I fear we may be headed for the worst. Urgent diplomacy and negotiations are needed," Emhyr says. He'd been delivered a missive during the contest, the report conveniently arriving between the semi-final and final rounds, and he had needed to do no more than to tell Mererid _make preparations_ for a flurry of activity to begin behind the scenes. In recent times these last minute trips have become common, and the Emperor's entire staff are prepared to execute another at a moment's notice. "Both sides have agreed to a series of meetings in Gemmera's capital, if overseen by the Emperor, but this truce could fracture. Thus, I must depart imminently." 

Geralt remains near the doorway as Emhyr examines the contents of the smallest bag, ensuring his most important personal effects and documents are present. "Thought you were gonna be here tonight." 

An untrained ear might hear the statement as casual, but Emhyr's has become well trained during five years of marriage, one year of courtship, one year of denying their growing affections for each other, and decades of having their fates shaped by each other before that. He can detect and interpret very subtle variations in his husband's tone, and this one is clear. Geralt is disappointed. Emhyr understands why; he's been absent very often lately, physically absent from the Imperial Palace for the majority of the time and mentally absent from anything besides his work for much of the rest. It's been a difficult and demanding period for both the Empire and its ruler, filled with civil unrest and political instability and precarious negotiations and at-risk trade treaties and clashes with mercantile corporations and the occasional report of a potential assassination plot.

"As did I." Emhyr closes the bag, satisfied that his crucial belongings are accounted for. He doesn't check the others, trusting Mererid has ensured all the appropriate clothes and accessories have been chosen for him; the absence of his chamberlain suggests he's conducting similar inspections of all the other supplies and personnel being readied around the palace. Three of Emhyr's attendants appear just outside the open doorway with a unison recitation of _Your Majesties_ , and Emhyr gestures for them to enter. They bow to him and Geralt before silently gathering the baggage and carrying it off with remarkable speed, clearly sensing they're in danger of intruding upon a private moment between the Emperor and Emperor Consort. 

Once the attendants have departed, Emhyr makes his way into the bedroom he shares with Geralt. Geralt has been permitted to retain the chambers he was given before they were wed, should he be in need of privacy, but he mostly resides in Emhyr's apartments and uses his own as a sort of home base for his own endeavors. Geralt follows Emhyr and closes the door behind them. "Guessing I can't come with you?" 

"It will be a very busy trip. I expect I will be engaging in meetings and diplomatic activities for the majority of it, with preparations and study of intelligence reports consuming the rest," Emhyr says. As they've grown gentler with each other, Emhyr has become less direct in his speech and Geralt has somehow managed to become even more direct than he already was, but the balance they've struck is successful for them most of the time. Geralt will know what Emhyr is implying: he would be a distraction. Part of Emhyr doesn't want to deal with that distraction and wishes to concentrate solely on eradicating the threat at hand, but the part of him that has been deprived of his husband's presence and values Geralt's opinions and advice on strategic matters deeply wishes the circumstances would allow him to bring Geralt along. But circumstances haven't been kind to them lately. With such a politically fraught trip Emhyr can't take the risk of any diversions in his focus, and it seems crueller to permit his Emperor Consort to accompany him and then ignore him for the entirety of the trip than to leave him here at the palace. 

"How long will you be gone?" Geralt asks, and it's clear he's understood. 

Emhyr wishes, desperately, that he had an answer. "That depends on how the negotiations unfold." 

Geralt doesn't reply. He crosses the room and begins to undress for bed, first placing the assortment of blades he keeps hidden on his person on the bedside table and then carefully setting the three vials of emergency potions he carries in his pocket beside them. After he's removed his precious possessions, he yanks off the luxurious white and gold garments his chamberlain dresses him in for contrast with Emhyr's black and gold ones and tosses the expensive clothes onto a nearby chair like they're worth no more than the worn-out bloodstained rags he used to wear before he became royalty. Emhyr hadn't been certain whether to anticipate more resistance from Geralt, perhaps one of the snarky or biting comments he's infamous for, but gets nothing. 

"I hope they will conclude swiftly," Emhyr says, as if his wishes will be of any comfort. 

Geralt hadn't minded at first, being apart from Emhyr. Not for their first several years together, and not when this period of difficulty began. The Emperor Consort is a fiercely independent and self-sufficient man, used to being on his own and being separated for long stretches from lovers by their missions and the witcher's Path. Ideal traits and history for the spouse of a busy and overtaxed Emperor. Geralt had left the palace to seek his own adventures with regularity, found things to amuse himself with around the grounds, and spent as much time with Cirilla as he could. But Geralt had tired of the palace grounds and found Cirilla away more often around the time the frequency of his ventures had decreased, and he grew restless and unsatisfied. In this context, Emhyr regrets his absences and distraction deeply. 

But they've been necessary. It's challenging to rule through diplomacy rather than force, to aim for peace rather than conquest, to foster stability rather than expansion. Had Emhyr not built up a fearsome reputation before the shift in his ruling strategy over the past seven years, he would likely be facing even more resistance outside the City of Nilfgaard and attempts to depose him within it. But the hardship is worth the results; in keeping with his lifelong philosophy, the ends justify the means. Everything changed the day Cirilla agreed to ascend the throne of the Nilfgaardian Empire, the moment Emhyr truly understood that whatever ruin or riches he left behind would be his daughter's burden or blessing. And they changed further when Geralt and Cirilla, both in possession of strong moral compasses, began to look him in the eyes and provide their opinions of his decisions and hold him accountable for the results. When he had to choose whether his daughter and his beloved would look at him with disappointment and disgust, or love and pride. And Geralt knows this. By now Geralt understands the difficulty of being an Emperor, and he understands the difficulty of being married to one. And hopefully Geralt understands that one day the affairs of state will settle and their daughter will be prepared to claim her inheritance and Emhyr can abdicate his throne to be forever by his side. 

"At least there's that new bard to entertain me while you're gone. Seems like he'd know some songs that'd make your prudish courtiers clutch their pearls," Geralt says after a long silence, standing there facing the bed in his underwear as if deliberating whether to get into it. 

Emhyr walks slowly and deliberately to Geralt and places his hands on his husband's shapely hips from behind, appreciating the toned muscles and obvious strength of his witcher's physique. Geralt lets out a long breath and turns to Emhyr, an uncertainty in his mesmerising golden eyes that's painful and disorienting to see. Emhyr presses a kiss to Geralt's lips, and when it takes them both a moment to relax into it, he realizes how long it's been since he's properly kissed his husband. He hopes the guilt he feels doesn't bleed into their kiss and taint it. 

"Really no time to sleep before you go? You can't sleep in carriages," Geralt says, when they finally pull apart. He looks at Emhyr's shoulder like he wants to rest his head on it. 

"We will travel at as fast a pace as possible to Gemmera without pause, and should no complications arise, arrive in the capital of this thorn in the side with enough time for me to sleep before I must subject myself to the meetings," Emhyr replies. He considers threading his fingers into Geralt's soft white hair and guiding his husband's head down to where they both want it, but he knows if he does then his shoulder will feel too cold and too light when Geralt is inevitably forced to lift it again. 

"Wouldn't count on no complications," Geralt retorts. Because Emhyr knows him well, the confrontational tone seems tender rather than abrasive, a clear indication of his concern that the Emperor isn't properly taking care of himself. 

"Sacrifices must be made for the Empire," Emhyr replies impassively. He regrets his words instantly when Geralt turns away and gets into bed. He did not consider the implications that his statement might convey after several months – perhaps close to a year, the time has blended together in a haze of crisis and stress and travel and exhaustion – of regularly leaving his husband by himself. 

"Yeah. For the Empire." Geralt's tone leaves Emhyr feeling like a frigid winter draft has rushed over him. Emhyr frowns and resists the urge to say something unkind, perhaps something about how the difficulty of Geralt's temporary reduction in spousal company is nothing compared to the constant burden and strain that Emhyr is bearing for the entirety of an Empire, but recognizes the dark impulse for what it is and bites it back. Both Emhyr and Geralt have defensive reactions to each other on occasion, instincts they struggled to combat in the early stages of their relationship and sometimes struggle with still, ghosts of a past where they clashed repeatedly and terribly followed by years of falling deeply and frighteningly in love while trying desperately not to allow the other one to gain the power to break them. 

"You know you have my devotion," Emhyr says, taking Geralt's chin in his hand and tilting it up briefly to kiss his husband's forehead. 

Geralt's voice is gruff to disguise its rawness. "Yeah. Me and the Empire." 

"You as much as the Empire," Emhyr says, even as he knows the events of the past year – it _has_ been a year – make the words ring hollow. 

"Travel safe," Geralt says. The distance in his gaze as it fixes on the gold silk bedspread over the lower half of his body gives Emhyr the distinct impression that very few things he could say would be helpful, and the chances of saying the wrong thing are high. He nods and heads toward the door, knowing he'll regret his silence but would likely regret any attempt to break it as well. He's spent too much time here as it is; he should've left almost directly after the attendants, but couldn't tear himself away without trying to leave relations between him and his beloved in a mutually satisfactory state. Regardless, he has failed. As Emhyr walks away he hears the sound of fabric and mattress moving as Geralt slides fully under the covers and shifts to get comfortable, and wishes he could get into bed with him and wrap his arms around his husband and sleep. He hasn't truly slept in so long. And what hurts most, what makes the guilt threaten to consume him, is the knowledge that Geralt would not be so troubled if he did not deeply and passionately love Emhyr, as deeply and passionately as Emhyr loves him in return. 

With his hand on the door handle, Emhyr thinks of something. An olive branch to extend. "There have been reports," he says, forcing his voice not to betray the reluctance he feels in saying it, "of a wyvern plaguing a village to the east. Morvran has more information about it. Perhaps, while I am gone, you could investigate." 

Geralt's eyes are surprised when they open, the gold bright with a spark of genuine excitement. Emhyr aches at the way Geralt still lights up at the prospect of hunting monsters. The way the Emperor Consort could live safely in a palace and be provided with anything he wants for the rest of his days, never again forced to risk his life for meager coin or endure cold and hunger and hardship and pain, but won't be truly happy unless he's putting his life on the line for others. Putting himself in dangerous situations that leave Emhyr closing his eyes and clearing his mind and forcing himself to focus on anything besides whether Geralt has been wounded or has overdosed on his poisons or whether this quest might be the one he doesn't return home from. Emhyr promised Geralt when he proposed marriage that he wouldn't control him, wouldn't trap him, wouldn't force him to give up his independence, wouldn't expect him to live as a silent and beautiful presence always at his side. That he would never want to. One of the things that attracts Emhyr to Geralt the most, and torments him the most, is how _untamed_ the witcher is. Geralt wouldn't accept the proposal until Emhyr pledged to support Geralt's decision to continue his Path by performing witcher services for the people of Nilfgaard, protecting them free of charge from creatures that the soldiers of the Nilfgaardian army would be defeated by. Geralt mostly retired after they wed, a long life of injuries and strain taking its toll on his battered and weathered body, but nothing satisfies him more than going back into the field and risking everything to save lives. And almost nothing terrifies Emhyr more. 

"Yeah. Maybe I could." Geralt smiles, just a little, and even though it's the dead of night it feels like the sun has risen.


	2. Chapter 2

"Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_ ," Geralt groans as he staggers back into the Imperial Palace, leaning heavily on two of his guards. He used to hate having to drag a whole entourage along on his hunts, still kind of does - he can do as much damage against humans as thirty men, and even Imperial Guards can't do shit against the monsters - but they've got uses. Like keeping political opponents from trying to kidnap the Emperor Consort, and hauling his ass home after he gets it handed to him by a royal wyvern. Of course it couldn't be a normal wyvern, it had to be the extra-pain-in-the-ass kind. It's dead, because it was either the draconid or Geralt and he sure as hell didn't want it to be him, but it fucked him up in the process. It got some ugly gashes in on his right shoulder and arm, bruised him up pretty bad, and even after a Golden Oriole potion a royal wyvern's venom is no joke. Even the nice Grandmaster Legendary Nilfgaardian armor Geralt's got now hasn't got shit on an angry mega-wyvern's talons, teeth and tail. 

It's still weird, slumping down onto a designated injured-witcher bed in the war room of his own chambers and closing his eyes and letting his squires undress him. It's been like this for six years, sure, and Barnabas-Basil made sure he didn't die while he was at Corvo Bianco, but he was on his own for over seven decades before that. And it's weird to have healers immediately rush to his side, ready to clean and salve and suture and bandage or magic away whatever gruesome mess Geralt's stumbled home as that day. Wasn't so long ago he had to do that himself, half-conscious and bleeding out on some forest floor without enough medicine and bandages, bracing himself to get spit on or attacked by whoever came across him passed out there or hobbling back into town to get cheated out of his pay. It's funny, but the thing that makes Geralt most aware of the difference in his life after the Emperor of Nilfgaard decided he wanted to marry him isn't the _Your Majesty_ s and fancy clothes and court rules and ritual bullshit. All of that feels like some weird game everyone's playing and he's just playing along with it. No, the biggest difference is the monster hunts. The hunts themselves are the same as they always were, Geralt and a sword and some signs against things that want to kill him, but the aftermath is like a whole different world. 

A world where he still gets soaked through by rain, though. His own fault. Geralt insisted on going out before the storm hit because the thing was eating people and a little rain had never stopped him before, but he underestimated how quick the storm would hit and how bad it would be. So by the time he was done chasing the ornithosaur into the middle of nowhere and slaying it, they were in a downpour so heavy all his guards and squires could do was rush him back to the palace and probably curse the fact that they weren't allowed to say _I told you so_ to the Emperor Consort. Geralt didn't care about the rain, and his men would live, but he did feel bad for their horses and Princess Roach. 

"Fuck. Fucking - _fuck_ ," Geralt groans again, when they get him lying down and being moved makes everything hurt worse. He's still pretty out of it from the venom and blood loss and exhaustion, so he doesn't have a clear memory of them taking off his cloak and armor and shirt, but it must've happened because his shoulder is stinging like hell as a healer swabs one of the wounds with alcohol. His whole torso is covered in blood, so he curses again. Nobody blinks at the profanity, since they got used to him swearing at least twice a sentence a long time ago. Geralt cracks an eye open and looks up at his chamberlain, Caldwyn, who's overseeing the squires gathering up Geralt's weapons and filthy wyvern-battered armor for much-needed cleaning and repairs. The young man looks down at him with a surprising amount of concern, and Geralt gives him a wry smile. "Emhyr's gonna kill me for letting a wyvern make mincemeat out of me, huh?" 

"There is a chance His Majesty will be displeased," Caldwyn admits. 

Geralt lets out a little huff of a laugh and closes his eyes again. He shakes his head to get his drenched stringy mud-splattered hair away from where it's starting to stick to his face and immediately gets dizzy, so that's a mistake. "Yeah. He's gonna fuckin' kill me." 

Emhyr insisted on Geralt having his own mage; he takes the court sorceress Morwenna with him when he travels, and doesn't trust Geralt not to get himself into some near fatal shit while he's gone. Betrys is a specialist in healing magic, a kind woman with red hair in a shade that's a little too familiar. As soon as she gets in the door she hurries to Geralt's side, but when she puts her hands over his slashed up shoulder, they shake and the magic doesn't flow properly. She gasps as power sparks on her fingertips, zapping Geralt right in the open wound, and her nose begins to bleed. "Oh, I - I'm so sorry." 

"Hey, you okay?" Geralt mumbles, taking the mage's hand in his to keep her from trying that again and hurting them both. "It's fine, what's wrong?" 

"It's... well, you recall my daughter, the Child Surprise I received last winter?" Betrys says. Geralt nods, smiling a little despite the pain he's in as he thinks of his own. "She's fallen ill. I believe she's cursed. Something complex and very dark." 

"Sorry. That's rough," Geralt replies. Not the most eloquent reply, but he's not thinking too clearly right now. "Know what it's like, being scared for your kid. Worst feeling in the world." Then, "Why're you here? Go un-curse her." 

Betrys's voice is pained. "I was told I was to stay here and heal -" 

"Fuck whoever told you that," Geralt says. "Go take care of your daughter. As much time as you need. Not gonna die from a couple scratches they can sew up. I'm a witcher." She still hasn't moved, so he adds, "Guess I'm also Emperor Consort, so I'm gonna order you to go. I'll make a royal decree or whatever if I have to." Geralt hates using his position to get people to do stuff, almost never does it, but Betrys hurries off with a grateful smile at the knowledge she won't get in trouble so it's worth making an exception.

It hurts like hell. The alcohol swabbing, the pressure to stop the last bit of bleeding, the stitching of the talon gashes. A healer tries to give him a cup of some tea to make it all stop hurting so fucking bad, but Geralt waves it off. He doesn't want to mix too much stuff with the wyvern venom rampaging through his system, and he's used to pain anyway. It's a good distraction from what he doesn't want to think about, which is that the damn thing wouldn't have gotten him so good if he hadn't made a stupid mistake. Didn't realize soon enough he wasn't going to get a good enough strike in on the wyvern's descent on him from above, and was too slow to get a quen shield up. It's a mistake he might've made a decade ago, sure, but a decade ago he wouldn't have been too slow to fix it. Geralt closes his eyes and endures the pain until he slips into meditation. 

Geralt's brought out of it by Caldwyn saying, "I assume Your Majesty would like a bath," which means both _I know your preferences and you are absolutely filthy_. Which is fair. 

"Yeah. Sounds good."

It wasn't so long ago that Geralt had to skip baths, dunk himself in a freezing cold river that might've been as dirty as he was, or occasionally squeeze himself into a small tub of tepid water at an inn when he could scrape together the coin and find an innkeeper who wouldn't call him a _mutant freak_ and tell him they didn't serve _his kind_ there. Corvo Bianco changed that, but it never felt real, like it could be snatched away from him at any moment. And it always hurt, pulling on wounds as he tried in exhaustion to clean himself and couldn't do it well enough. The Imperial Palace's bathing chambers are all large and luxurious, and he's got his own right in his apartments. All the court bulllshit is worth it to be put in a bath the size of a small pond, with attendants to bathe him and wash his hair. The water's hot and has nice medicinal herbs, the smell gentle enough not to bother him, and there are soft towels to dry him off with one they're done. Geralt sighs peacefully. Might be the venom talking, but he'll consider enduring the next Equinox Ceremony without complaining because of this. 

"Your Majesty, would you prefer to be brought to your marital chambers, or remain here?" Caldwyn asks. 

"My own bed," Geralt says. "Could rip some stitches. Might bleed through bandages. Emhyr hates when I get blood on our bed." 

Geralt doesn't have a clear memory of getting into his bedroom and to his bed either, just being set down on it by Caldwyn, because the poor guy's royalty-serving training had him short circuiting when Geralt used to wave off help dragging his injured and exhausted body around so Geralt gave in and lets him do it. There's the strong smell of herbs coming from beside him once he collapses into the bed, so he sniffs the air and identifies a cup of tea with a blend of things to dull the pain and help him sleep. Witcher strength, since Emhyr made all the healers study witcher biology so they'd stop giving him medicine too weak to do much, freaking out at his slow heartbeat and subsceptibility to fevers, and acting like injuries that are pretty mild to a witcher had him on the verge of death. Geralt sighs, and puts his hand out for it. "Fine, drug me up." 

"Shall I find you another mage, or perhaps a druid?" Caldwyn asks, in the voice he uses when something shouldn't be optional but he's forced by protocol to ask anyway. "I believe it would be for the best, Your Majesty." 

Geralt's already getting drowsy a minute after finishing the tea, and he yawns. "Still won't call me Geralt? After six years of getting my blood on you?" No reply, which is a _no, I was taught the universe would collapse if I did that_. "Don't worry 'bout finding somebody. Witcher. Couple potions, meditation, mutant stuff, we're fine." He shifts, and it tugs at some stitches. There's a lot of stitches. And bandages. And bruises. Shit, he's a mess, and he really looks like it. Emhyr's not going to like it, but Geralt gets a small smile on his face thinking about the scolding he'll get from his concerned and relieved husband whenever he gets home. It's annoying, but it's Emhyr's way of telling him he cares about him. Geralt pictures Emhyr's aggravated face and murmurs fondly, "Yeah. Emhyr's gonna kill me." 

Tomorrow won't be fun. Ciri's on a trip and his attendants are clearly tired of playing Gwent with him, and with how far the stables are and how horrified and scandalized everybody was the last time he had Princess Roach brought to him inside the palace, he won't be hanging out with her either. Shame, since he wants to brush her and feed her apples himself after the whole wyvern and rain incident. As he closes his eyes, Geralt thinks maybe he'll call for that new bard. He wonders, vaguely, if the bard will wear that horrible pink and teal outfit and feathered hat.

Dandelion sighs at the black and grey ensemble he's been forced into for his first audience with the Emperor Consort, mourning the removal of his hat. He vigorously protested the shaving of his moustache and goatee to the Imperial Barber, a lout of no taste who claimed his fashionable facial hair was _hard on the eyes and unrefined_ \- as if he, Dandelion, could ever be anything less than the height of style! - but ultimately deemed it unwise to make too much of a fuss when the man had a blade to his throat. This was what he had feared before he knew of destiny's romantic plans and had been thoroughly uninterested in joining Emperor Emhyr var Emreis's court: dour outfits, forceful grooming, and snooty chamberlains implying he - Dandelion the bard, loved by nobles and royals across the continent in both a professional sense and a carnal sense - might not know how to _bow_. 

But no matter. Dandelion's debasement and humiliation will be worth it soon. This is what he must endure to see his Gift of Fate, the lovely Geralt of Rivia, and so endure it he will. 

Dandelion is surprised to be led to the Emperor Consort's private apartments, a remarkably intimate location for their first meeting. He is no stranger to the chambers of royalty, of course, though he usually is invited into them for more lustful pleasures, and more than likely that is not what Geralt has in mind for their audience today (though, of course, Dandelion would be loathe to presume). Geralt's sitting room is small, sparsely furnished with a few high-backed chairs and polished wooden cupboards and a desk stacked with books, and has three doors leading off into other rooms. Dandelion is positively shocked to discover the situation is so much worse than he thought - Geralt has been banished by his cruel and heartless husband, relegated to separate and far lesser chambers, cast out of their marital bed. It would rend Dandelion's heart in two, were it not such a golden opportunity. 

"Your Majesty," Dandelion says as he executes a _flawless_ bow and flourish, thank you very much, and then is nearly knocked off his feet by the witcher's overwhelming beauty. Geralt is sitting in one of the chairs, arms on the armrests, posture slumped and far from regal. He's dressed much more casually than the formal robes and jewelry he wore on the day fate crossed their paths, in a loose black linen shirt and trousers that surprise Dandelion; he had expected the Emperor Consort would be required to look prim and pretty all the time, even for private audiences with bards, but is glad that is not the case. These details, however, become mere footnotes in the face of Geralt of Rivia up close. His pearl white hair shimmers with the light from the window and his flawless bone structure seems to have been crafted to provide the perfect frame for those cat eyes that glimmer like the sun. And, ah. _Ah_. At this distance, his looks are such that for a moment Dandelion fears he might faint. Geralt nods to dismiss his chamberlain, and Dandelion pulls himself together enough to say, "My sincerest gratitude for summoning me. It is my greatest honor and deepest pleasure to entertain Your Majesty upon this fine Nilfgaardian afternoon." 

"Hope you do," Geralt says. Dandelion's breath catches for reasons besides the alluring deepness and huskiness of his voice. Those reasons would be alarm and panic. For a moment he fears he may have seriously misjudged the Emperor Consort, as it is not entirely uncommon for royals to make off-with-his-head threats should he fall short of their expectations - but then Geralt grins. A joke. Dandelion laughs nervously, then genuinely. "Congratulations. Contest, I mean." 

"It was truly an honor simply to compete," Dandelion says. Geralt's right sleeve slides up a bit as he shifts positions, and Dandelion braces himself to see the smooth milky skin of the witcher's shapely forearm - but instead spots bandages on his wrist. "My genuine thanks to you and your court, and wishes for your speedy recovery." 

Geralt looks confused for a moment, looking at both his shoulder and his arm for some reason before his eyes fall on the exposed bandages of his injured wrist. "Oh. Yeah. That. Should be good in a day or two. Got pretty lucky it wasn't worse." 

Dandelion isn't sure if he should ask further questions, because, as they say, curiosity killed the cat - Dandelion, however, is not a cat. Geralt doesn't talk anything like Dandelion expected, and certainly nothing like the various other assorted levels of royalty and nobility he's had the mischance to come across in Nilfgaard. And he did seemingly give Dandelion an opening for conversation. Not to mention, their bonding is being overseen by approving fate itself. And so he says, "Forgive me for the intrusion, Your Majesty, if you don't mind me asking - no need to indulge this humble and curious bard, of course, but - what misfortune befell you to wound you so?" 

"Wyvern," Geralt replies. 

Dandelion laughs, delighted to discover the Emperor Consort is the witty sort. "Ah, witcher humor. I see you gathered more than skills and bravery from your time in the field. Your Majesty, you truly are quite funny." Dandelion is glad that, at least, hasn't been stomped out of the repressed royal; Geralt may have been dragged from his life of dashing deeds and heroic tales, locked up in a big lonely palace as the plaything of the cold and unfeeling emperor, at the mercy of the tyrant's whims and orders, but there is still a witcher deep down in his soul. Geralt looks confused, which saddens Dandelion quickly. Perhaps no one regularly tells him they appreciate his sense of humor - in fact, Dandelion is certain they don't, as all the Nilfgaardians he's encountered in this palace have been droll and joyless. Tragic for such a clever mind to be wasted among them. Dandelion vows to shower Geralt with praise for his wit and banter every day, until Geralt easily believes it. "Well, keep your secrets. Shall we hear a song?" 

"Sure." Geralt indicates a chair across from him, close enough for Dandelion to fixate on the plushness of the rosy pink lips that the Emperor Consort's tongue briefly flicks out to wet, and Dandelion both celebrates and bemoans that. It is only through the grace of fate, he knows, that he will survive Geralt's proximity long enough for their relationship to blossom into what it's meant to be. 

Dandelion removes his lute from his back before seating himself gracefully in the indicated seat, placing his musical tool of seduction in position on his knee. He tuned it and warmed up before the audience, not wishing to waste a single moment of his time with his newly minted beloved on awkward plucking and jangling that would ruin his illusion of melodious magic. "I will play anything you request. Though, I will mention, I have written a song about you."

"Me?" Geralt appears surprised. "Why?" 

It rends Dandelion's heart in two that this gorgeous man, this creature of such magnificence and allure, can't imagine why anyone would write a song about him. Dandelion can't imagine why anyone _wouldn't_. Alas, he will have to work on Geralt's self esteem as well as his boredom, loneliness, and complete lack of joy. "You caught my eye, what can I say? I've always had an eye for fine art." Dandelion fixes Geralt with a flirtatious smirk, and then - ah - recalls the reason that isn't the wisest of ideas. Geralt isn't one of the usual nobles Dandelion comes on to; he's the Emperor Consort of the Nilfgaardian Empire, for gods's sake. But Dandelion is unabashed, as it was a very good line and he lost the capacity for shame decades ago, and so the smirk remains on his face as he says, "My apologies, Your Majesty. Perhaps that was too forward." 

"Geralt," Geralt says. 

Dandelion blinks. "Pardon?"

Geralt shakes the foundations of the bewitched bard's world when he says, "Call me Geralt." 

Dandelion's heart leaps in his chest, and executes an enthusiastic jig of the sort he incorporates into his more bawdy performances. He'd been calling the lovely Emperor Consort by his name in his head already, but wouldn't have dared to speak it aloud. However, he can't let Geralt know he's been aching to speak his name since the moment he saw him, so he says, "Your Majesty must know that is _quite_ improper -" 

"Fuck proper. I get enough of that stuffy shit all the time," Geralt says with a snort, and Dandelion blinks again, shocked at his language and tone. Geralt was a witcher, of course, but Dandelion assumed the palace would've trained such colorful speech out of him. He sounds, quite frankly, fed up. "You'd think a bard of all people would be willing to cut the bullshit." 

Dandelion smiles. "Well, if you insist, Geralt." He winks. "When it's just you and me." 

Without further ado Dandelion begins to strum the opening chords of the song he penned, letting them reverbrate in the room for a moment before joining in with his voice. He's quite proud of it. It's an ode to the beauty and strength of the Emperor Consort, his renown both as a witcher and a royal, and his ability to swoop hearts across the continent out of the ribcages under which they should be safe. He gazes into Geralt's mesmerizing feline eyes as he croons, caught in a battle between the desire to connect with his Gift of Fate's soul and the difficulty of not falling into those aureate orbs and becoming forever lost in their depths. 

Geralt looks wistful by the end of the song, and Dandelion wonders what he pines for. If he's missing better days. Days before he went down this road paved in gold that led to a gilded cage in which he became trapped. Simple days when he could go to a rustic tavern and drink as much ale as he could hold and listen to bards like Dandelion sing raunchy raucous songs that had the whole place stomping and cheering and thrumming with energy, songs that would never be allowed to be performed within the Imperial Palace's oppressive walls. If he's dreaming of life on the road, free as a white wolf, laying in meadows amid fresh grass under a gentle sun in an endless sky. There's something romantic about it, the life of a witcher, wandering the continent never putting down roots or forming complicated ties, unbound and unchained. Dandelion wonders if that's what Geralt is nostalgic for - freedom. 

"You're good," Geralt says, after a few moments of silence. "Stuff you sang at the contest, that was all yours, right?" 

"Yes, of course." Dandelion grins proudly. "Penned from my own skilled hand, and my own loving heart." 

"Thought so," Geralt replies. "Yeah, it was really good. Even Emhyr said -" He switches into an impressively accurate imitation of the Emperor's voice, " _The winning bard was highly satisfactory_. And he never says anything good about bards." 

"I hope I will get the privilege of entertaining His Imperial Majesty the Emperor as well," Dandelion says smoothly, even though he absolutely does not. Quite the opposite. In fact, it will only be a lifetime of practice at acting however his audience wishes and masking his true feelings - along with a lack of desire to be summarily executed - that will keep him from acting far less than cordial toward Geralt's inadequate, cruel, undeserving husband. From informing Emhyr var Emreis of how unworthy he is of the tormented witcher's love. But it's what he's supposed to say, and so he does. 

"He's on a trip," Geralt says. "Had to go to Gemmera for some political bullshit." He pauses a moment before adding, "Don't know how long he'll be gone, but sure, whenever he gets back he could hear a couple songs." 

"Ah, wonderful," Dandelion replies, as though his heart isn't being further torn asunder. Geralt is truly so disregarded, left behind by his husband to wither as the selfish man roams the world without providing even such simple information as when he'll return. Disgraceful. Dandelion considers whether it's wise to pry in such complex affairs as royalty and marriage - and the most complex affair of all, royal marriage - but. It's just the two of them, and Geralt doesn't seem like the type to reprimand a nosy bard; at worst, he'll likely decline to answer the question and that will be that. Geralt didn't have to volunteer as much information as he did, so perhaps he is prompting Dandelion to talk, aching for the conversations he's deprived of. So Dandelion asks, "Is His Majesty away a lot?" 

"Yeah." Geralt's smile is wry, with a touch of the resignation and sorrow felt by a maiden whose husband has gone off to war. "Most of the time these days." 

Dandelion gives Geralt a reassuring smile. Geralt is so neglected, so abandoned, like a beautiful gem cast aside into the corner of a box to gather dust. It's admirable how he puts on a brave face nonetheless, keeping up his royal countenance despite the utter lack of affection bestowed upon it. The suffering he needlessly endures. Dandelion wishes to cradle Geralt's lonely heart in his lute-callused hands and murmur to it that he's happy to hold it, to give it a home with his own. "Ah," Dandelion replies, because it's too soon to say that - just a _bit_ too soon. "Shall we hear another song?"

"Why not," Geralt replies. 

Dandelion positions his fingers on the lute strings again, and thinks of the nostalgia in Geralt's eyes - immediately the perfect song comes to him, surely through the strengthening connection he feels between their spirits. He fixes his gaze on Geralt's again as he lets the dulcet tones of his instrument and his voice mingle. He sings a song of the open road, of the loving embrace of nature, of being lulled to sleep by the whispering of tree leaves in the forest and bathed in the cool droplets of summer rain. He paints a picture of colorful spring blossoms blooming by rushing rivers, the breeze light and the sun's rays warm. It's a song of the world beyond the palace walls, everything Geralt is locked away from, so Dandelion brings it to the trapped witcher in the form of his song. When he finishes, he lets the silence sit comfortably with them again, until Geralt is ready to speak.

"Shit," Geralt says. Then, "The song. Really fuckin' good." 

"Thank you, Geralt," Dandelion replies, with a soft smile. "I'm glad I could bring you some joy." 

It's at this moment - after only two songs, an absolutely disgraceful place to cut short Dandelion's set when it was just beginning to enrapture Geralt and mend his broken spirit - that Geralt's chamberlain enters, bowing. The young man is carrying a cup of tea that smells strongly of herbs and wafts copious amounts of steam. He hands it to Geralt, whose nose twitches as he sniffs it, a witcher habit Dandelion finds absolutely adorable. The chamberlain waits for Geralt's nod of approval at the tea before speaking again. "Your Majesty, your dinner will be arriving shortly. Dandelion, I'll show you to your chambers or one of the dining rooms, whichever you prefer to take your own meal in." 

Dandelion is barely able to bow goodbye to Geralt before he's being shuffled out of his Gift of Fate's apartments by the chamberlain with alarming speed. He looks plaintively at Geralt through the shrinking gap as the heavy door closes, helpless to prevent him from being shut away in isolation again. Dandelion presses his hand to the door for a moment, mourning how little he can do for Geralt. Geralt is tossed aside by his husband, left alone in his empty and inferior chambers, not granted even the kindness of company at mealtimes. And Dandelion is powerless against the force of the Nilfgaardian Empire and the weight of Geralt's crown. 

The Emperor Consort is such a romantic figure, such a tragic one, such an entrancing one, such an _enchanting_ one, one that's cast a spell on Dandelion's soul he knows he would be unable to break even if he wanted to try. And Dandelion knows beyond a fragment of doubt he's found the muse he's been searching for. 

Dandelion goes straight back to his room, sits down at his desk, and writes until dawn. 

The negotiations, to put it mildly, are proceeding less than ideally.

Emhyr had called Gemmera a thorn in his side while relaying the situation to Geralt, but after a patience-straining day of meetings between a sequence of ineloquent royals and nobles and diplomats and partisan leaders and representatives of commerce, he has come to realize that was a severe understatement. This mess is an entire thorn bush wrapped fully around his body - painful to be ensnared in and hopelessly tangled. Perhaps Emhyr was mistaken in thinking bringing Geralt with him would have been an unwise distraction. He needs to rant and seethe at someone about the state of affairs, and his current company is inadequate in that regard. Morvran will attempt to provide tactical opinions, Morwenna will wear a carefully calculated mask of politeness, and Mererid is too well-trained to do anything but agree with him. Geralt, however, would certainly join in his complaints with the biting wit he's known for. And Geralt is the only person in the world around whom Emhyr can allow his composure to fully slip. At the last minute, he had changed his mind on leaving his top general behind and had Morvran roused from his slumber in the middle of the night to join him - perhaps he should have done the same with his husband. 

"Foolishness. Utter foolishness," Emhyr says yet again, shaking his head and thumping his hand down on the desk in the unsatisfactory study they've provided him in the capital's palace for the duration of his trip. "Ebbing would lay waste to Gemmera in armed conflict, and Gemmera knows this. They would not be so bold should they not know I cannot allow two of my states to go to war." 

"Their position is not entirely without merit, but I do agree," Morvran replies.

"Which of their positions? They had not made it clear to me that there were quite so many factions." Emhyr shoves aside the page of meeting notes in front of him in irritation. "I see now why. It would not have curried them any favor with me." 

Yes, Emhyr may have erred in leaving his Emperor Consort at the palace. He could use assistance in sorting out the mess after hearing seemingly endless sides of the argument, all conflicting. Morvran is a good tactician, but that is the problem; he is a military strategist first, and despite his political knowledge, he views the world through a lens that will not be entirely helpful in this specific circumstance. Geralt, while not well versed in political affairs - he had made it something of a life mission to stay out of them while on the Path, though he had often failed - is cunning and has great insight into the human condition, along with expertise navigating messy morally gray areas. It is precisely because of his distance from the political world that he is capable of coming up with unconventional but brilliant solutions. It is a testament to how far Geralt has come that Emhyr wishes he were here; the witcher, despite his lack of patience for courts or long-winded speeches or formality or indirect speech, can be quite an asset in situations involving them. He is terrible at _participating_ in them, a sure recipe for a diplomatic disaster, but they both agree that a strategy involving Geralt keeping his mouth shut in the moment and providing his thoughts and opinions to Emhyr later is the perfect one. 

Emhyr waves his hand at his chamberlain and general and sorceress without looking up from the papers on his desk. "Leave me." 

The three of them nod and exit the room, understanding the Emperor's need for time to himself amid the absolute debacle unfolding around him. However, they do not realize how deep his need runs. 

Emhyr needs time to himself in his everyday life. Or, better yet, time with his husband and their daughter. The three of them have many happy memories to draw on, yet for some reason, he thinks of the "family dinners" Cirilla imposed on them after she had first convinced Emhyr to call Geralt to Nilfgaard to spend time with her under the pretense of several witcher contracts. They had been polite to each other for a short time, residual good will from Geralt keeping his word to bring Cirilla to Emhyr and their mutual care for their shared daughter, but had soon become combative again. Cirilla finally tired of their clashes and gave them both a firm talking-to, then insisted on the three of them having dinners together during which arguments and discussions of politics were banned. They had been uncomfortable at first, Emhyr and Geralt mostly ignoring each other while not being allowed to snipe at each other, but slowly they had slipped into conversation and found more common ground. And it became the beginning of something much more. At the time Emhyr had endured it only for Cirilla, but it brings a smile to his face now. 

"Geralt, provide me your opinion," Emhyr says sardonically, to the empty air. "Which of these emissaries is the greatest fool?" He pauses, as if waiting for an answer that won't come, then says, "Ah, you are right. It is all of them. Every last one." He smiles, a strange and bitter thing. His husband really has warped his sense of humor. "And tell me, Geralt, shall I let them all do as they wish, flee from this hell, abdicate my throne, and retire with you to your vineyard?" Another pause. "Yes, right again, I cannot burden Cirilla so. Compassionate as always, witcher. But you make a salient point - we _should_ drink more wine now. Much, much more." 

Someday they'll leave, Emhyr reminds himself, but not yet. He's proud of Cirilla and her progress towards becoming Empress is going well, but he can only hope he manages to get the Empire into a state of stability around the time she is ready to ascend the throne; he does not wish to stifle her when she is ready to claim her position, and he wants to be rid of his title before too long, but he cannot inflict the life he is currently living upon her. 

Emhyr dreams of his and Geralt's future life at Corvo Bianco regularly, both when he is awake and when he is asleep. When Geralt had finally brought him to his vineyard in Toussaint three years into their marriage, Emhyr got a glimpse of what their retired lives would be like: sipping wine under the fading rays of the idyllic sunset, indulging in conversations and gentle embraces for hours, and making love every night - most days as well, often multiple times. For the first time in his life Emhyr knew peace, and he found it in Geralt's sanctuary. He found himself relaxing into the tranquility, savoring every moment of it, even laughing once or twice - however briefly. When they had returned to the Imperial Palace after their trip, that quick taste of heaven remained in Emhyr's mouth until it grew into a constant deep aching hunger. 

Emhyr's mind drifting to his husband makes him wonder if Geralt has pursued his lead on the wyvern, and if he has battled it. The thought makes his muscles clench under suddenly cold skin, his heartbeat quickening, his breathing remaining even only through conscious control. He chooses not to think about it any more.

"Morvran, Morwenna, Mererid," Emhyr calls out, knowing they won't have gone far. As expected, the door to the study immediately opens, and they join him again. Just to test his theory, he asks, "Provide me your opinions - which of these emissaries is the greatest fool?" 

"I would require further assessment to determine that," Morvran replies. 

"It is not my place to say," Morwenna says. 

"Your Majesty will know best," Mererid defers. 

Emhyr shakes his head, the sardonic smile returning to his lips. "It is all of them. Every last one."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> geralt looks [very good](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/witcher/images/5/5e/Tw_nilfgaardian-armor-dlc.jpg) in [nilfgaardian armor](https://mistress-light.tumblr.com/post/190477745657/geralt-of-rivia-nilfgaard-armor-requested-by).


	3. Chapter 3

Dandelion is thrilled to be summoned by Geralt again soon. Not as soon as he'd like, as ideally he'd spend all his days lounging by Geralt's side serenading him to both of their hearts' content, whispering sweet nothings into his sensitive witcher ears and sharing goblets of fine heady wine between ballads - but no matter. The universe will lead them to their bliss when it is ready. Besides, he needs enough time to himself to write songs about Geralt, as he finds absence makes the heart grow fonder and every moment he spends apart from his Gift of Fate makes him appreciate the beautiful Emperor Consort's presence more when they are finally reunited by the mercy of the forces that guide them together. And since their last meeting, he has written several. 

"Your Majesty," Dandelion says with a bow as he is guided into the sitting room of Geralt's apartments, using the formal title like it's a joke between the two of them. As soon as Geralt's insufferable chamberlain leaves, he smirks and corrects, "Geralt." 

Geralt's in the same casual black linen outfit, arms crossed and posture loose, and it seems the bandages still haven't come off his wrist. Nonetheless his plump pink lips turn up the slightest bit in something close to a smile, small but far more easily given than Dandelion expected from a man carrying so much woe in his admittedly very shapely chest. "Bard. Dandelion." 

"Truly a pleasure to see you again. Your company is my honor and privilege," Dandelion says, with a heavy dose of his signature charm and just a sprinkle of sensuality. A chair has been set across from Geralt again, so he slides into it and places his lute on his knee in one fluid motion. It occurs to him once his bottom is settled on the seat that perhaps he should have waited for the Emperor Consort's direction to be seated - however, this did not cross his mind, as already he has begun to forget the differences in their stations. Geralt feels like someone he's known all his life despite how recently they've met, because they've been intended for each other all along. But, Dandelion reminds himself, he should be more careful. Geralt doesn't know that their fortunes are eternally intertwined. He will know soon, but not quite yet. "Geralt, shall I play for you, or shall we talk first?" 

"Don't know, did you write another song about me?" Geralt says it like it's a joke, but, ah - he underestimates Dandelion. It's understandable that this poor deprived man shut away in his gilded tower may not have heard of Dandelion's reputation, despite how far it precedes him, as a philanderer and lover and poet of the highest order. Cut off from the world as he is, it's possible he doesn't know what a charming and effective seducer Dandelion is - or perhaps it's more accurate to say he doesn't know _yet_.

"Of course I did," Dandelion replies smoothly. "How could I not? Two, in fact. I had to outdo my offering from last time." 

"That was fast." Geralt's right eyebrow lifts in a subtle display of surprise, and Dandelion feels quite self-satisfied. "All bards write that fast?" 

"Only ones with an irresistibly inspiring muse," Dandelion says. And with a wink, he begins to play. " _When once a humble bard, was brought into the court, of the Emperor of Nilfgaard, and met his Consort..._ " 

With that, Dandelion launches into the saga of Geralt of Rivia. He starts from the very beginning, when Geralt was brought into this world to be a shining light in its darkness, then continues on to a rather handwaved explanation of him being transformed into its protector. The story begins in earnest when he starts on Geralt's time on the Path, detailing his travels and exploits, his journeys and triumphs, moments in which he found the strength to overcome insurmountable odds through his heroic soul. If Dandelion does not conclude the story with Geralt's relocation to Nilfgaard and marriage to its Emperor, that is of no consequence; he includes only the relevant information. And so his comprehensive history ends with Geralt standing atop a mountain and gazing into the sunset, dreaming of his next adventure. 

"How was that?" Dandelion smiles at Geralt expectantly. Perhaps a bit smugly, but he has every right to be proud of his creation. Bards across the continent would personally cut off limbs to be able to compose something so glorious. For any bard lesser than he, it might be a magnum opus. However, for Dandelion, this barely scratches the surface. Geralt deserves no less, and Dandelion could not possibly settle for less when it's up to him to play the part of perfect suitor. 

"Yeah. Good." Geralt nods. Dandelion would find this an underwhelming response had he not already come to know Geralt's intentions so intimately, and therefore he can tell through those two words that Geralt has opened himself to the possibility of being swept away on a river of fantasy and romance. "Can't believe you wrote two songs about me." 

"Have you forgotten last time already, my dear royal witcher? I've written three," Dandelion corrects him. "In fact, I daresay this is the perfect time to hear the third." 

"Sure," Geralt says, and settles more comfortably in his chair. "Go for it." 

At their last meeting, Dandelion had pretended to express some hesitance about being too forward. This time, he does not bother with that farce. Dandelion locks onto Geralt with eyes that are somewhere between adoration and seduction as he plucks at the strings of his lute and croons about Geralt and solely Geralt, mainly about his physical perfection. He mentions the Emperor Consort's strength and personality, of course - he would be remiss not to - but the majority of his song is devoted to, well, his beauty and his physique. Dandelion spares no expense while describing the witcher's features, and everything attractive about them; he also does not bother with economy of words. But this is all to lead into his final verse: how entrancing Geralt is, how flawless he is, how _desirable_ he is. Dandelion feels Geralt may need an unsubtle reminder of how desirable he is, which is very, very desirable indeed. 

"There," says Dandelion, once he's given Geralt enough time to let the mellifluous strains of the melody and full impact of his lyrics sink into Geralt's soul and nourish it like water into the roots of a wilting flower. "My complete repertoire of odes to you. Well, so far. Rest assured there will be more." 

"Still can't believe you wrote songs about me." Geralt looks at him for a long moment, as if attempting to untangle a complicated mess of feelings brought up by having affection bestowed upon him, something he doubtless hasn't experienced in a long time. Perhaps not since his selfish husband snatched him out of the open arms of a world with so much love to give him. "Didn't know there was much to say." 

"That, and more. So much more. I'll write more songs, many more, and you'll see how much there is to say about you," Dandelion assures him, trying not to show how his heart hurts for Geralt. Geralt must truly be treated as something uninteresting and unimportant if he doesn't realize that he, the most fascinating creature in the land, is intriguing enough to write entire sagas about. No, Dandelion cannot express his sorrow for the demeaned Emperor Consort. Geralt suffers enough; what he needs is a steady and comforting presence, not the burden of the pain of a heartbroken bard who is suffering along with him. However, this provides Dandelion the perfect opening. Because he knows the answer is _no_ , he asks, "Has His Imperial Majesty the Emperor returned yet?" 

"No." Geralt shrugs. "Sounded like stuff there was pretty complicated, so... might be a while." 

"Ah." Dandelion gives him a reassuring smile. And then he pushes just a little more, because his words are being tugged down the path of increasing emotional intimacy and he has never been good at denying his instincts. "It seems like it must be a lonely circumstance indeed." 

"Used to it," Geralt replies, with another shrug. "Happens a lot, being married to an emperor." 

Dandelion and Geralt are sitting close today - even closer than last time, Dandelion notes with a thrill - and so Dandelion looks deeply into Geralt's eyes, capturing the cat-eyed witcher's intense gaze with his own and holding it. "That doesn't mean it can't be lonely." 

Geralt shifts and looks away. Dandelion senses his discomfort and knows he's hit a nerve, something raw and sensitive inside Geralt that constantly aches but increases to sharp stabs of agony when prodded. And Dandelion is momentarily regretful, because he doesn't intend to subject Geralt to emotional pain, but he _does_ intend to open the doors of Geralt's closed-off soul and let his wishes and desires flutter free to remind him of what he needs and deserves, so this is an unfortunate but necessary side effect. It's like re-breaking a bone to set it properly: sometimes a broken heart must be broken a bit further to be healed. 

"That may be all the songs I have about you today, but I have endless others about less enthralling topics," Dandelion says, redirecting Geralt's brooding. "Any requests?" 

"Whatever's fine," Geralt replies, looking back up at Dandelion, who is pleased to realize he's acclimating to having the overwhelmingly attractive witcher's eyes on him and no longer feels as likely to swoon. He wishes Geralt would ask for what he wants, but he understands that may be hard, as he must have been convinced his own desires don't matter while being forced into the mold of Emperor Consort for Nilfgaard and dutiful husband and plaything for Emperor Emhyr var Emreis. They can work on that as well. One day, Dandelion knows, Geralt will tell him what he wants. And it will be _you, Dandelion. I want you_. 

But, ah - Dandelion is getting ahead of himself. The wings of his flights of fancy are beating a bit too quickly. He pulls himself back down to Earth. For now. 

"A story, then," Dandelion says. He arranges his dashing features into a mask of wistfulness and longing and softly begins playing a song: a tale of an unspecified tragic figure, but a sad and lonely one. If he perhaps mentions the tragic figure's golden eyes, well, that could be a metaphor rather than a literal description. But as the song continues his tone gradually lightens and his face loses its tension, as the tragic figure unexpectedly meets a musician - also unspecified, of course - who embraces them and quickly becomes their lover. Very quickly, so quickly that the tragic figure feels hesitance in jumping so hastily into a passionate affair with the musician, but comes to feel it is the best decision they have ever made. When Dandelion finishes, he says proudly, "Another of my own creations. In fact, I wrote it last night." 

"Your songs. Seems like a lot of work to write them," Geralt says. "How many have you written?"

"Oh, gracious. I couldn't begin to count." Dandelion laughs. It must be in the hundreds, but they've all begun to feel a bit inconsequential now that he's found his destined muse and felt what it's like to sing of the subject matter he would sing about until the end of his days. "And the number is increasing quickly. In the short time I've been in your court, I've written more than I normally write in a month." 

"Huh." Geralt gives Dandelion a little smile, and oh, it seems he hasn't quite acclimated to those tiny twitches of the rugged beauty's mouth, rare and precious as the contents of a gold mine. "Easier to write with all the baths and gardens and feasts?" 

"I will admit to being inspired in part by the palace," Dandelion agrees, then locks his eyes on Geralt's slightly widened pupils and gives him an intensely flirtatious but steady look as he says, "But mostly the people in it. One in particular." 

Geralt blinks in surprise - and what a triumph that is, the great and stoic witcher caught off guard by the sheer power of the sensual force that is him, Dandelion - as Dandelion strums his lute to begin another song. 

This is another song of the world beyond, a place for which the trapped witcher undoubtedly yearns, and all the joys that can be found there. Dandelion paints a picture for him of the beautiful world of nature, a place he must be sorely missing in a formal and sterile atmosphere like the palace. He weaves a beautiful lyrical tapestry of balmy nights spent lying under the stars tracing the constellations, tranquil mornings of roaming through green fields to pick herbs and flowers, lazy afternoons soaking in a wonderfully cool river and watching its inhabitant creatures play. The tune is similar to a traditional traveling song, but different enough that Dandelion is not copying it - as a fountain of originality and brilliance, he would never - but merely adding allusions to it into his own melody. 

"Nice," Geralt says when he's done, nodding slowly. His perfectly chiseled face is pensive. "Kinda reminds me of something." 

Geralt doesn't say it, but Dandelion knows what that _something_ is. His days of freedom. The life of steel and silver, adventures and admirers, freshly killed meat and free love he was made for. Dandelion leans forward and softens his eyes, putting the expression on his face that he dons when he wants to impress upon his companions what a good listener he is. A fantastic listener, really. One has to be, in his profession, in order to craft the stories of their subjects. "Geralt, as always, feel no obligation to indulge this simple inquisitive bard in his pryings, but may I ask - do you miss being a witcher?" 

Geralt's forehead furrows a bit in confusion, an adorable wrinkling of the skin between his strong eyebrows, and then he lets out an amused huff. "Don't have to miss it. Still a witcher." 

"Ah, right you are," Dandelion says deferentially. "It was a foolish question." Or, perhaps, foolish phrasing. Of course Geralt is still a witcher. He may not seek out fights and slay beasts anymore, may have had his feet dragged from the Path, but his mutations are for life. _Witcher_ isn't merely a profession; it's a biological classification, a state of being, an eternal condition of the soul. Geralt may not be allowed by the oppressive directives and forced confinement of his royal status to follow his questing instincts, but they're still there and always will be. "My apologies if my inquiry was insensitive." 

"Wasn't really," Geralt replies, and Dandelion is relieved. 

"One day I'll have to ask you about your... witchering," Dandelion says. "I am a storyteller first and foremost, as you are certainly aware, and I know a source of fascinating material when I see one." This is true. Dandelion is certain that he could build an entire career off singing only about the Emperor Consort, if he wished. It's strange to think about how different their lives may have been if fate had crossed their paths just a bit sooner, while Geralt was still on the Path. Dandelion could have joined him as his traveling bard, his barker, regaling every tavern and town square they passed through with the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the, the - White Wolf. Oh, that's good. It's _so_ good. It's so good that Dandelion is devastated, utterly devastated, that he didn't meet Geralt in time to make the nickname catch on. But perhaps he can do so retroactively. And perhaps, hearing himself called that will make Geralt realize how right it feels, much better than _His Majesty_. Once Dandelion gets Geralt talking about the old days, he can unlock that nostalgia that will remind the wild, fierce, independent man that he misses living as he was intended to. That the White Wolf is still inside him, howling to break free. He'll realize he can have that life again. And that Dandelion will be the perfect companion on his rough and noble road. Destiny truly must be finding its job easy here; Dandelion is brilliant, and he's doing all its work for it.

"Yeah, sure," Geralt says. "Got a few stories." 

"You must get asked about them all the time," Dandelion says. Because he knows exactly what he's doing. Exactly how Geralt will answer.

"Not really," Geralt replies. Dandelion feels a bit bad for making him say it out loud, but he needs to make the contrast obvious. Though it feels like his heart is being wrung out to hear it, yet another admission from Geralt that people here in the Imperial Palace don't care about him. They don't care about Geralt's incredible storied past, his superhuman feats, the unfathomable monsters he's defeated, the lives he's saved, everything he achieved during his decades roaming the world rescuing frail and pitiful humanity from threats too great for them to withstand without his protection. They care that Geralt is beautiful and warms the Emperor's bed when the horrid man sees fit to give him the slightest scrap of attention. As if Geralt doesn't deserve the constant adoration of every single person in the land. 

"Well. I'll ask you about them," Dandelion says kindly, his listening expression back in place. He wonders for a brief moment if it would be too far to reach out and lay his hand on Geralt's knee, but luckily the inconvenient positioning of his lute robs him of having to make a decision on taking that risk. "I'm sure you must have tales of glory and gore, of shock and sensuality, of viscera and valor, of indomitability and intrigue, of amuse and awe." 

Geralt grunts. "A couple, maybe." 

"Oh, only a couple?" Dandelion smiles teasingly, and makes a note to add modesty to the list of the Emperor Consort's virtues when next he is extolling them. "And here I could have sworn you traversed the Continent leaving a trail of grateful citizens in your wake. Ah, those must have been the days." 

"The decades," Geralt says, with a wry look. "I'm old as fuck, bard." 

Dandelion laughs softly. "Well, I'm glad you survived all those decades so I could meet you." 

And with that, Dandelion launches into another song. This one is more upbeat, more catchy than his admittedly - but subtly - lovesick ballads, one of the jaunty tunes Geralt must have heard in taverns back then. Not to sing his own praises rather than those of his muse, but Dandelion has penned quite a few popular drinking songs in his day, known everywhere from backwater hovels to the most refined of big cities. It is, perhaps, tempting fate to play this song for Geralt. It is bawdy, it is raunchy, and it is the kind of song that would have him flung bodily into the streets of the City of Golden Towers to be trampled by the Imperial Guards' horses should the wrong person hear it. But Dandelion has always lived by the principle of high risk, high reward, and from what he understands the way to a witcher's heart has two paths: the kind and gentle one, and the booze-soaked and crass one. Luckily, Dandelion is capable of both. 

"I like that," Geralt says with the little upturn of his lips that passes for a grin on his tragedy-worn face. He began nodding along to the rhythm about halfway through, the most animated Dandelion has seen him during any of his songs. "Should play stuff like that more often. Musicians here won't play that." 

Dandelion lets out a derisive noise, shaking his head. "It seems like there's a lot of things that people here won't do." 

"Yeah. No kidding." Geralt looks disappointed for a moment, the tiny grin sliding from his face, and, oh. Oh. 

If only Geralt could have his freedom. If only he could do more, and be surrounded by people who do more. If only he could go adventuring, and have people to adventure with him. If only, if only, if only - Dandelion could lament for hours, thinking of everything he wishes Geralt could have. He would give the devastatingly gorgeous witcher the world if he could, wrap it up in a bow and press it into the hands he so desperately longs to hold. He wonders if Geralt's big hands are still callused, or if their protective layer faded soon after the swords were taken out of them. One day, he'll find out. And it would be wonderful, so wonderful, if he could find out on the open road. Perhaps, Dandelion thinks, the reason fate chose now to bring him to Geralt is so he could rescue him. It's not so crazy to think that, just maybe, Dandelion could help Geralt regain his freedom. It's not so crazy to think that Geralt might be open to someone romancing him, sweeping him off his feet, running off with him into the endless sunset in the big, wide world. 

It's right then - once again, at the worst possible moment - that Geralt's chamberlain enters the sitting room. Not that there would ever be a good moment for him to intrude upon their private bonding time. Dandelion has come to dislike that man very much. 

"Your Majesty," the chamberlain says, to announce he plans to inflict his unbearable presence upon them, and presents Geralt with a goblet of wine. Geralt gives him a smile that is far too grateful for simply being handed a beverage, a distressing sign of the lack of kindness he must be shown, and takes it with a _thanks_ in a low and quiet voice that has a shiver going up Dandelion's spine. However, this does not reduce his irritation. After all the time Dandelion spent daydreaming about bringing wine to share with Geralt, the chamberlain comes cavorting in and provides it to him as if he has any right to preempt the very romantic gesture Dandelion was absolutely going to make at some point in the vague future. Dandelion does not know how Geralt stands him. "Your dinner will be brought to you shortly. I will fetch the book you requested from the Imperial Library, and escort the bard to wherever he would prefer to take his meal."

The answer is _here_ , and Dandelion considers saying it. He wishes Geralt would say it. Surely Geralt, as lonely and isolated as he is, must be desperate not to see the first true company he's had in who knows how long depart. But they must have truly broken his will to request much-needed companionship, because Geralt simply smiles again and says, "Thanks, Caldwyn. Appreciate it." 

Dandelion savors his last few minutes with Geralt as they sit alone in peace, Geralt sipping the wine and Dandelion watching the way it stains his already flushed lips as his throat bobs with each swallow. Dandelion considers playing one more song for him, just one more, but has no doubt that Cledwyn or whatever the Official Aggravation's name is would have no problems tossing him out mid-song and that would be very unromantic indeed. So instead he merely sits with Geralt, enjoying the silence that falls between them. As tempting as it is for Dandelion to let a cascade of words tumble free from his mouth, as he is generally always letting cascades of words tumble free from his mouth, the witcher seems to like someone sitting quietly with him so much that Dandelion - for once in his life - can't bring himself to make a sound. It's bittersweet, how much Geralt enjoys someone simply sitting with him. Anyone being with him at all. 

"Gonna write me three songs next time?" Geralt asks, once the wine is gone. His posture has gotten a little looser, and he looks like he may still be joking - oh, he'll learn - but is also a bit curious.

"It would only be fitting," Dandelion agrees. "Though I am not certain I could stop at three." 

Geralt shakes his head. "Still don't think there's that much to say about me." 

Dandelion truly mourns whatever was said or done to Geralt to make him believe that. To force him to accept something so blatantly untrue. Dandelion could fill a songbook with odes to his bewitching Gift of Fate, and then another, and then another, until there was no more paper left on the Continent. They could fell every tree and dry up every well of ink, and still Dandelion would have more to say. He could write for hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries, and never tire of the thoughts of his muse. Geralt doesn't understand how anyone could begin writing about him, but Dandelion doesn't understand how he could _stop_. There's still so, so much left to say.

Maybe it's unwise, but Dandelion has been taking risks and nudging boundaries with the Emperor Consort since very early on in their first meeting, and it's worked out with him so far. So he asks, "Permission to speek freely?" 

Geralt nods. "Don't have to mince words with me, bard." 

"In that case, my apologies in advance for pushing your permission so far," Dandelion says. He meets those entrancing witcher eyes, the feline pupils fixed on him in curiosity, and - oh, it seems they still can send his heart quivering within his chest. But he has a point to make, and so he stills the traitorous organ, which he will not allow to flutter so hard he is rendered incapable of making it. "If I'm speaking frankly, Geralt, you deserve better than what you have."

Geralt blinks once, then again. He tilts his head just a little, and it would be adorable if it weren't sad how confused he is by this idea. "Better? Got everything I could want." 

"Do you?" Dandelion holds his gaze for a few more long moments, then looks down at his lute and shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Geralt. It's not the place of this modest and lowly bard to say things like that to someone in your position. I hope it wasn't too disrespectful." 

"Told you already. Don't have to mince words with me." Dandelion looks back up at Geralt hopefully, and Geralt nods. "I respect the honesty. Takes some balls to say something like that to an Emperor Consort. Wish more people had the balls to do that." 

"Thank you," Dandelion says. And because he has absolutely no filter, he finds himself saying, "Many royals have been pleased by my balls." 

Geralt laughs. He actually laughs. It's a little huff of amusement, muted and restrained, but a laugh nonetheless, and Dandelion is mesmerized by it. Mesmerized by the laugh - it's lovely, if quiet and rough - and the fact that it's for him, all for him. He wonders how long it's been since anyone made Geralt laugh. Geralt gives him another of his tiny upturned-lip grins. "Shit, bard. You're really something."

This is when Clodwyn or whatever the Imperial Killjoy is called returns. He gestures to Dandelion, who takes his time standing up and slinging his lute strap back over his shoulder, thank you very much. He stretches. He checks his lute is secured. He takes a look at his chair to ensure nothing fell out of his pockets. And then, only then, does he acquiesce to the silent order to leave. But as Dandelion gives Geralt a sweeping gesture of respect and farewell, Geralt says, "Come back soon." 

"Of course, Your Majesty," Dandelion replies, as his yearning heart begins to quake within his chest again. "I will come to you any time you summon me." 

Later, alone in his bedroom, Geralt's thinking about what the bard said. And, fuck. No. He doesn't have everything he wants. He knew that, too, but it just came out because he doesn't like thinking about shit like that. He wants more. He wants a lot of things. He wants his body from a decade ago, maybe two, before all the injuries and exhaustion and malnutrition and stress and strain really started to fuck it up. The body that could live on the Path if it wanted to, not just make a couple trips onto it every so often. He wants a world without bloodshed and politics, where both humans and non-humans can live in peace. He wants Ciri to be as confident she can be a great Empress as Geralt is, and the Empire to be ready to give her the reign she deserves. He wants more time with her. His husband, too. He wants Emhyr here to hold him and kiss him and spend hours talking to him or ploughing him or just sitting in silence with him and doing that thing they do where they never say _I love you_ but don't have to. He wants so much. So fucking much. 

Geralt sinks down on his bed and rubs his hand over his forehead because fuck, this is giving him a headache. He doesn't want to think about this because then he thinks about how things got like this. He always figured he'd stay on the Path until he slowed and got killed, because that's what happens to witchers. Their fates are sealed from the minute they survive the last trial. And he's still probably going to die a witcher's death, with the way his last hunt made it pretty clear he's slowing down and he's not healing as quick as he used to, but when it happens it's not going to feel as inevitable as it did back before Ciri got him to come to Nilfgaard and he just never left. And the thing is, there's a lot more on his shoulders now than when he got tricked into coming to the Imperial Palace to deal with an archespore problem and ended up married to the Emperor. So he thinks maybe, in those last moments, his witcher's death might not feel as noble as it once would have. 

The other thing is, Geralt wanted this. Not the Empire stuff, not the royalty bullshit - though he wouldn't trade it away for anything because it means he's with Ciri and she gets to follow her dreams - but a home and a family. Somewhere to settle down, if he chose to, and people to settle down with. And then he got the chance to have that place to build a home with people he loves, somewhere he could rest and recover from the horrors of the world, somewhere and someones he could come back to. He had all these visions of coming and going whenever he wanted, spending weeks on the Path and weeks in the Palace, fighting or luxuriating whenever he felt like it. But then his abused and aging body stopped moving as easily as it used to and started hurting more. Monsters got fewer and further between. And he was restless, but he had just enough Palace distractions - cards with his attendants and time with the horses in the stables and endless rooms and grounds to explore - and just enough hunts to keep him from getting too restless. So he settled down in the Palace more and more until one day he looked up and realized he'd settled down pretty far and his husband and daughter hadn't settled down with him. And he realized he'd gotten to the point where it fucking tore him apart to be separated from them for too long. 

Geralt still goes out on hunts more than Emhyr wants, sure. Probably more than Ciri wants, though she's still witcher enough to get it. But not as much as Geralt wants. Because Geralt wants a lot. 

And that's the problem. Geralt spent his whole life being told shit like _it doesn't matter what witchers want_ and _witchers don't get to desire things_ and _witchers' needs don't matter_ and believing it, so when Ciri and Emhyr finally convinced him that the mindset he'd had since he was a scared little kid screaming his lungs out in shackles during the trials at Kaer Morhen was a lie, he wanted everything. He wants to settle down. He wants to be on the Path. He wants to be with people he loves. He wants to be independent. He wants a home. He wants to roam the world. And he thought maybe, for the first fucking time in his life he was allowed to want, he _could_ have everything he wanted. But then he got old and tired and those people he loves got pulled away from him. So maybe he's a little bitter at Emhyr for making him think that, and maybe he's a little bitter at himself for being naive enough to believe it. Believe it enough that it actually bothered him when it turned out he couldn't have everything after all. 

But it's fine, because it has to be. Geralt might want a lot, but he only _needs_ one thing. He needs what's best for Ciri no matter what, and that's what he's got here. So it's fine. That's good enough. 

Geralt rubs his palms over his face and gets up slowly, wincing at the pain in his right knee. It's been raining for two days now, since the day after Emhyr left, and his knee is aching badly. Overtaxing himself on the royal wyvern hunt didn't help, but it would've hurt anyway. It's a pain no healer or sorceress has been able to fully will away, and a stiffness they've never been able to loosen for long. It always comes back. He jokes about being able to tell the future, saying stuff like _feels like rain_ or _wind's gonna be howling_ , because that's better than saying it hurts. Emhyr's gotten good at detecting little changes in the way Geralt walks even when he thinks he's hiding it pretty well, and he always sends Mererid or Caldwyn to ask a healer for the tea that makes it more comfortable and hands it to Geralt without comment or room for argument because he knows Geralt's pride will never let him ask on his own. It doesn't today either, because he's had much worse pain, with the scars all over his battered body to prove it. 

The bedroom window in Geralt's apartments overlooks one of the courtyards in the gardens. Geralt walks stiffly to it with a bit of a limp, then looks down through the torrential rain at the courtyard below. The mix of the sight and the pain reminds Geralt of one his favorite memories from the year they both got their heads out of their asses and Emhyr did everything backwards by proposing to him and then starting to court him. They were walking through that courtyard after a couple days of thunderstorms, and Geralt's knee was hurting so fucking bad that he finally slumped down on one of the benches and said he was just sitting there to watch the golden carp swim around in the pond across from it. Emhyr saw through his bullshit, though. And then His Imperial Majesty Emperor Emhyr var Emreis, who kneels before no man, got down on the ground in front of Geralt. He gently stretched out Geralt's knee and massaged the aching joint until the tension went out of the witcher's body, then kissed it and got up to sit beside him until he was ready to continue their walk. And all Emhyr said about it was _yes, the carp is quite interesting to watch_. Geralt braces himself on the windowsill and closes his eyes, overwhelmed with a wave of desire to have his husband here to sit with him again. 

Geralt got reports of another royal wyvern near the same town yesterday, probably the mate of the one he just slayed. He wants to go out and hunt it, but feeling like this with weather like this, that'd be idiocy. The rain's coming down in sheets, too thick for even a witcher to bother with, and that's leaving aside his fucking knee. Even if he ignored the pain or took something to soften it, the joint's still stiff and weak enough to get him in trouble with a fast and angry draconid. His arm and shoulder aren't fully healed either, not in the best shape they could be in. That wouldn't have stopped him before, when he lived on the Path and needed contracts to survive and didn't have a whole Empire that'd be forced into some long and boring mourning bullshit if the thing took him out, but this isn't before. Now if he's going to die that witcher's death it's got to be because he did all he could and wasn't good enough, not because he was foolish or stubborn. The beast's probably not going to be flying around eating people in this kind of rain and it'd be hard to track anyway. Geralt will be overwhelmed with guilt if he's wrong and somebody gets hurt or killed before he arrives, but right now, the smartest thing to do seems to be to wait until the rain stops. 

Which is a shame, because Geralt wants a fight. A fight would be a good distraction, just the kind he needs. Fighting has always been his primary form of distraction, the solution he turned to when he didn't want to feel shit or think about shit. But he's not going to be stupid enough to give in to that urge. Not when he's got the loyalty of millions of citizens and a daughter who says _I love you_ to him regularly and a husband who once admitted while drunk that when Geralt goes out hunting he can't relax until his witcher is safely home. Things change, but it's a shame. Geralt just wants to save a life. One fucking life. To feel some fucking purpose. 

Geralt will hunt and fight that damn royal wyvern the second the rain stops, he promises himself. He'll slay the beast and save the village, and be ready to tell Emhyr all about his adventures when his husband wins his own battle and finally comes home to him. 

Emhyr returns to the Imperial Palace on the third day after the rain stops to find Geralt in the sitting room of their shared apartments, settled in a comfortable chair with his legs up on a stool in front of him and an open book abandoned on his lap. His eyes are closed. He is wearing a sleeveless shirt and loose trousers to withstand the heat, and the revealing attire makes it apparent that his right arm and shoulder and part of his chest are heavily bandaged. It's clear from the further wrappings on Geralt's left ankle, a cast of stiffened bandages beginning halfway up his shin and continuing down over his bare foot, that something is wrong with that joint as well. The crutch propped up on the windowsill beside him does not inspire confidence that the rest of his leg is unharmed. And those are only the visible injuries. Geralt opens his eyes when Emhyr enters and closes the doors behind him, coming out of what seems to be a meditative state. He blinks once, a subtle gesture of surprise, and then the wolf medallion and sun pendant he is wearing around his neck glint as he sits up straighter and smiles. His golden eyes have lit up in an instant. 

"You are wounded," Emhyr says. 

"Yeah. Royal wyvern wasn't too happy to see me. Feeling was mutual," Geralt replies.

Emhyr frowns deeply. "Were you not healed? Where is your mage?" 

"Mage's daughter got cursed, so I told her to go deal with that. They wanted to go find another mage or a druid or something, but I told them don't worry about it. I'm a witcher," Geralt says with a shrug. "Mage wouldn't be able to fix most of this anyway. It'd take too much magic. Just gotta take a few potions and sleep and let the mutant freak stuff work." 

Emhyr grits his teeth to avoid unleashing a harsh scolding on his utterly unaffected husband. Geralt says _I'm a witcher_ as if it means _I'm invincible and incapable of feeling pain_ , which has not become any more true on any of the many occasions Geralt has said it. It irritates Emhyr to no end - Geralt has a complete lack of regard for his own health and safety, so used to seeing his condition as unimportant and injuries as something to wait out that, despite being an Emperor Consort with the means to find a magical healer he will simply _shrug off_ significant damage inflicted upon him. He will then drink poison and sit and wait to stop hurting, as if this is a rational plan by any means. The more he thinks about it, the more frustrated Emhyr gets. But just when he is selecting some pointed words to tell Geralt what he thinks about this sequence of decisions, Geralt lets out a little huff of a laugh. 

"Funny thing is, turned out to be two royal wyverns. Woke up the morning after the first hunt to reports of a second one. First one wasn't thrilled to see me, second one liked me even less. Took a chunk out of my leg, sliced open the shit the first wyvern did to me, gave me a couple extra, reintroduced me to the fun of wyvern venom. Then I tripped over a tree root trying to dodge the damn thing's tail of death and fucked up my ankle. Pretty smooth for a witcher, huh?" Geralt gives Emhyr a wry smile, as if there is anything amusing about this in the least. 

There would be nothing amusing about Geralt getting himself maimed on an ordinary day, but today Emhyr is in even less of a humorous mood. He's exhausted from his trip, a series of frustrations and confusions and bitter arguments that had him in an ill temper for of all of it but his departure at the end. He's vexed by his husband's determination to get himself into any trouble possible, and exasperated at Geralt once more taking a foolishly dismissive approach to his own healing. He is concerned by Geralt's poor state, a state for which he feels partially responsible as the person who provided Geralt with the information about the wyvern and the suggestion to investigate; after seeing the consequences of this decision, he regrets it deeply. Geralt is still looking at Emhyr like he expects Emhyr to be entertained by his story or laugh along with him, and this is what makes Emhyr lose his patience. 

"Spare me the gruesome details of your mutilation," Emhyr says. He sets his small bag down on a nearby table, and when he looks up, he finds Geralt has acquired the disposition that always reminds Emhyr of a wounded wolf - his hackles are raised, but there's something hurt in his eyes. It is then that Emhyr becomes aware of how his statement sounded. Dismissive words delivered in a detached manner with a cold tone. He realizes that it conveyed the opposite of what he would have intended it to convey, had he thought more deeply about it. Even after all this time, Emhyr cannot fully shake off his conditioning any more than Geralt can, a lifetime of torture and solitude and remaining guarded at risk of death leaving Emhyr sometimes still struggling to express himself in ways besides harshness. He did not mean for Geralt to hear, _I don't care about how this happened_. He meant for Geralt to hear, _I don't wish to imagine this pain being inflicted on you_. Though he would keep to himself, _I regret that your injuries are in part my fault_. 

Even with the look on Geralt's face, the slump in his shoulders, Emhyr still wants to scold him. He wants to tell Geralt that he was careless, he was reckless, and remind him that he has a husband and a daughter and an entire Empire to think of. He wants to tell Geralt off for senselessly risking his life, _still_ , when there is no need for him to personally do so. He wants to inform Geralt of the sheer depths of idiocy he has demonstrated by refusing to accept effective healing. He wants to make Geralt understand that he doesn't have to take the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he doesn't have to feel responsible for slaying every monster, protecting every village, saving every child, rescuing every damsel in distress. He wants to get his willfully obtuse husband to see that after a long life of constantly subjecting himself to danger and possible death, abusing his body and mind and putting his own needs last, he deserves to rest. 

_No witcher ever died in his bed_ , Geralt told him once. _You are an Emperor Consort_ , Emhyr reminded him. _And a witcher_ , Geralt replied. Emhyr could tell words would not get through to his stubborn husband and pressed his forehead to Geralt's, wordlessly begging him not to die. 

It's cruel, very cruel, but Emhyr is a ruthless man when he has an aim to achieve. There is still a part of him that is driven to achieve his ends at all costs, despite the way he has been tempering that instinct in his governance of his Empire for the past several years. And Emhyr's aim is to protect Geralt. So his mouth fills with the words _you are clearly not as young and skilled as you used to be, so perhaps it is time to seek another witcher to relieve you of these jobs in which you soon will not be of much use_. They are right on the tip of his tongue, pressing against his tightly sealed lips. It would be easy to open his mouth just the slightest bit and allow them to escape. But those words are horrible, and they would hurt Geralt far more than his wyvern encounters did, so Emhyr clamps his teeth together as well to bite them back. He takes a breath and musters all the composure he's mastered during his time as Emperor, and does not scold Geralt. Does not tear him down. Does not let himself slip back into their old habits, fights in which they aimed for the other's most sensitive spots with the intent of causing as much harm as possible as quickly as possible. Emhyr has had to learn to be gentle with Geralt, just as Geralt learned to be gentle with him. Over the course of their relationship they have both worked too hard to get to where they are now for Emhyr to take that step back. He cannot let them go back. 

"How'd your negotiations go?" Geralt asks, before Emhyr can say anything else. The hurt has faded from his eyes, so Emhyr lets the moment of tension go as well. "Guess you fixed it or you wouldn't be back." 

"Yes. A series of truces and treaties and needlessly complex agreements. A complicated, tangled web, and we shall see how long it holds. Doubtless I will be forced to follow up for a while. But armed conflict was avoided," Emhyr replies. "And I did not find myself on the wrong end of any teeth or spiked tails." 

"Yeah, I figured a wyvern wouldn't crash through the window to chew on diplomats," Geralt replies. Emhyr is satisfied that his joke, one perfectly in line with Geralt's dark sense of humor, has smoothed things over between them. However, it immediately becomes clear that Geralt did not take it as a joke, but rather an extension of the reprimand. Because Geralt adds, with bitterness in his voice, "Maybe you would've brought me along if one was going to." 

This is Emhyr's chance to tell him _you are right, I was wrong, I should have brought you with me and I realized that when I soon found myself in dire need of you_. However, that is not what he says. Emhyr is tired and irritated and concerned and frustrated at both himself and Geralt for the outcome of this situation and is not in the mood to entertain his husband's petulance, however justified. His temper flares for one brief moment and it's long enough for him to respond, voice clipped and cold, "Or perhaps I would not have, as you are clearly subsceptible to getting in the way of their claws." 

Geralt looks at Emhyr, and it's clear his temper has also been stoked by the way his feline pupils are constricting. "Sorry, next time I'll just _not_ get slashed by the divebombing wyvern's talons. Easy as that. Or should I sit around on my ass in your palace instead?" 

Emhyr meets his gaze firmly, not intimidated at all by the witcher's glare that would have most men running for their lives. "Nothing will, as you put it, _take a chunk out of it_ here." 

Geralt's eyes narrow, his shoulders stiffening and his pupils practically slivers. He winces a little at the flare of pain that comes from tensing his injured side, and this is when Emhyr returns to awareness of the path they're going down. He knows neither of them truly wishes to fight, not when they both have been longing for their reunion since they were parted. It would be hypocrisy on Emhyr's part to continue to lead them down that path. 

Not only had Emhyr promised Geralt he would support him in his witchering endeavors, agreeing to it as a fundamental term of their marriage, but he has no right to be angry at Geralt for putting himself in danger. Not when Emhyr himself has previously endangered Geralt's life on many occasions, through battles and attacks and dangerous missions and contracts of his own. Before Geralt had brought Cirilla to him, Emhyr had treated Geralt's life as something to be considered a necessary sacrifice if it stood in his way and something to be risked when convenient to achieve desired results. He had harbored no ill will toward Geralt, but would have been willing to accept his death if it was required to achieve his aims. 

However, that all changed when Geralt stood in front of him in the courtyard of the palace in Vizima, holding their daughter's hand. And it permanently shifted when Geralt refused to accept the payment Emhyr had promised him, caring only for their daughter's wellbeing. After seeing how much Geralt meant to Cirilla and forming the unsteady beginnings of a family with the two of them, then gradually becoming infatuated with Geralt as their family became stable, Emhyr could not see Geralt's life as a tool anymore. He saw it only as something vibrant and rich and precious, something they could enjoy together. Emhyr would do bold and terrible things to protect the people he loves. Now that he has Cirilla by his side, he would abandon all his aspirations toward peace and send his army out to mercilessly slaughter whoever opposed them if her safety were ever threatened. The ugly truth of the matter is that old instincts die hard, and a core trait of one's personality is hard to suppress. Emhyr var Emreis is a possessive man, and when he has something he cares about, he will not let it go. 

But of the many things Geralt and Cirilla have taught Emhyr, the greatest is something he had forgotten not too long into his quest to seize power in Nilfgaard and then across the Continent, fanatically obsessed with imposing his vision of a stable empire for both humans and nonhumans alike on any country too close to his expanding borders at any cost: he cannot have everything, and there are some things that are not his to possess. 

"Are you in much pain?" Emhyr finally asks Geralt, the steel edge removed from his voice. 

"Why would I be? Couple of wyvern talon slices, a bite taken out of my leg, and a fucked up ankle? No, feels great," Geralt replies sarcastically. 

Emhyr looks at his husband with clearer eyes, and truly sees him: a selfless man wounded in the service of the citizens of the Empire, a softhearted lover neglected in the name of duty to the throne, a loyal spouse disappointed yet again by the man who promised in front of the entire Continent and the Great Sun to always love and protect him. Sometimes Emhyr's vision becomes clouded with his own biases and desires, and he forgets the way he should look at Geralt. He replays their initial interaction, and sees a different picture as well: Geralt was excited, proud, wishing to share the details of his accomplishment and adventure with his partner, and Emhyr shut him down. Worse, he then went on to attack and belittle him. Geralt had done nothing wrong; Emhyr had simply viewed his actions uncharitably. Once more, Emhyr is reminded that he has not been good at marriage lately. 

"I... regret that you are in pain," Emhyr says, after a long moment. "I will see you are healed, to the extent it is possible. Is there anything else I can do for you?" 

Geralt's face softens. He lets out a breath and releases the tension from his muscles before saying, "Stop being an ass. Then kiss me." 

Emhyr walks to the chair in which Geralt is seated, intending to bend down to kiss his husband, but Geralt stands up before he can do so and leans against him. Emhyr arranges their positions so that Geralt won't have to put any weight on his injured leg and ankle, tucking his arm under Geralt's to avoid bothering the wounds on that side and draping Geralt's uninjured arm over Emhyr's shoulder for support. The positioning is awkward, perhaps, but it allows him to hold Geralt close. Geralt tucks his face into the crook of Emhyr's neck and breathes in a combination of his scent and the fragrance he wears when he knows he will be spending an extended time in close proximity with Geralt; it's a much lighter version of the musky mix of spices he regularly wears, pleasant for Geralt to smell but subtle enough not to bother the witcher's sensitive nose. Upon discovering early in their courtship to what extent some of the heavier perfumes worn by nobles and courtiers caused Geralt discomfort, Emhyr banned the wearing of excessively strong fragrances and any scent that made Geralt feel ill. But Geralt enjoys this one, and he continues to breathe in Emhyr with a satisfied sigh as he burrows more deeply into his hold. Emhyr rests his chin on the top of Geralt's head, the white hair soft against his skin, and thinks of how much he missed this. Falling in love with a witcher is a strange thing indeed: it leads one to miss being sniffed. 

After a long time of breathing silently in the same rhythm as Geralt, Emhyr says, "Your knee is hurting as well." 

It's a guess, but an educated one. It seems logical that, after a long spell of rain followed by two fights and a situation requiring Geralt to put a most of his weight on that limb, Geralt's chronic pain would return. Emhyr is, of course, correct. Geralt makes a small noise into his neck and admits, "You always know, huh?" 

"Come, sit down," Emhyr says. Geralt chooses to disregard it. While he hasn't said it in so many words, Geralt has made it clear over the course of their relationship that he enjoys being held. His husband can spend hours doing something that can only be described as _cuddling_ , will inevitably find his way into Emhyr's arms or curl up against his chest when they sleep in the same bed, and tends to conclude sexual encounters with taking Emhyr's arms and wrapping them around himself if Emhyr does not do so quickly enough on his own. Geralt once mentioned that he liked that Emhyr is nearly the same height as him and of a sturdy build - as tall and solidly built as Geralt is, the witcher does not often find a partner that makes him feel of normal size, let alone one who can fully envelop him in his arms and easily manhandle him when desired. So Emhyr lets Geralt lean against him a bit longer before guiding him back down into his chair. Once Geralt is comfortably settled, Emhyr finally kisses him. Geralt is smiling when he pulls away. Emhyr strokes his cheek until Geralt closes his eyes like a pleased cat, then lightly rests a hand on Geralt's silky hair and murmurs, "I will return." 

Emhyr carries his small bag into their bedroom and sets it down on his desk, then opens the cabinet beside Geralt's side of their bed. He retrieves a small gold container from it, then returns to the sitting room and pulls up another chair beside Geralt's. Geralt keeps his eyes closed when Emhyr rolls the right leg of his soft linen pants up to his thigh and opens the container, dipping his hand into it and then setting it down on the padded stool under Geralt's legs. Emhyr is still distinctly aware of how much trust it requires for the witcher, constantly alert for threats and sensitive to any possibility for danger, to allow Emhyr to touch him while his eyes are closed. Emhyr moves slowly nonetheless, resting his hands lightly on Geralt's bare skin before beginning to massage the salve into Geralt's aching knee the way he had the healers teach him to. 

Geralt moans almost obscenely, leaning back against the chair as a bit of tension leaves his body. "Fuck, that feels good." 

Emhyr digs his fingers in harder, working the painful muscles and joints in exactly the right places, with the level of pressure he's learned from experience helps most. "I do recall my hands making you say that on many occasions." 

Geralt smirks. "Feeling naughty, Emperor?" 

"Merely making an observation," Emhyr replies, and Geralt huffs in amusement. Emhyr continues for a while, until all the tension has left Geralt's body and he looks fully relaxed. He knows Geralt isn't asleep, but he may be close to it. When he's done, he wipes his hands clean of excess salve by rubbing it into Geralt's thigh and then says, "Thank you."

"Hm?" Geralt opens one of his beautiful golden eyes halfway, and fixes Emhyr with an inquisitive look. 

"For your bravery, and for the sacrifices you make for the people of Nilfgaard. Your mission to protect them from dangers too great for them to fight. Everything you do for the Empire - _our_ Empire." Emhyr nearly does not say anything else, feeling he's already said too much. Although he and Geralt have had their hearts bonded by marriage for five years, Emhyr still finds it hard to display his to Geralt in its rawest and most open state. For most of their relationship he communicated gratitude and apologies and love solely through actions or gifts, until Cirilla sat him down and informed him that words were customary in such situations and he should behave accordingly. But Emhyr has made many mistakes lately, closed himself off from his husband many times, and thought too often about the small changes in Geralt's facial expressions that let him know he's hurt his beloved. And so Emhyr adds, "Everything you do for me." 

Geralt smiles and lifts his head from the chair slowly. Emhyr notes he has not tried to control the way his pupils have become slightly dilated, the only physical sign of excitement he will show, and wonders if Geralt has been waiting to hear those words from him. Geralt is still smiling when he leans over and kisses him. "About time I get some thanks," Geralt murmurs against Emhyr's lips. Then his voice becomes deeper and huskier as he says, "Wanna thank me a little more vigorously?" 

That phrasing is, invariably, a request to be ploughed. Enthusiastically and roughly. Until he is growling out pleas about what he would like done to him harder and faster, tearing bedsheets from clutching at them so tightly. While Emhyr finds that the thought of his husband writhing under him moaning out swears mixed with Emhyr's name at a volume that has the Impera Brigade guards standing outside the door to their apartments stoically pretending their ears have stopped working is almost overwhelmingly appealing, he does remember there are other matters to consider. "I do. However, I would much prefer to have your injuries treated." 

Geralt scoffs. "I'm a witcher. I've been fucked in much worse states." 

Geralt's crudeness and directness sends a thrill through Emhyr, as it often does, because no one else on the Continent would dare to speak to him that way. When Geralt says such lewd things to Emhyr, it's not just arousing, though it is that - it's something he's never gotten from anyone else, because no one has ever been willing to provide it. And Geralt is more than willing to provide it. In fact, it is quite possible he can't help it; he has the filthiest mouth of anyone Emhyr has ever met, and it was very difficult to teach him to control it in polite company. It is quite tempting to take Geralt to bed, where he will speak more. However, Emhyr is a man of reason, and he can see many ways in which their passionate coupling could drastically worsen Geralt's condition. And so he resists.

"I am sure you have been. That does not mean you should be now," Emhyr says. "I will have Morwenna see to you, fix what she can, and we shall talk after that."

"We'll talk alright," Geralt says. The grin on his face informs Emhyr that he has something devious in mind, and Emhyr finds himself in the rare position of not being concerned about or averse to something unknown that Geralt is scheming. Geralt reaches his uninjured arm out to him, and Emhyr shifts his chair into a closer position so his foolish injured witcher can lean on him. Geralt sighs in contentment, breathing him in again. "Glad you're home."

"As am I," Emhyr replies. He holds Geralt against his chest, knowing the witcher likes to hear and feel his heartbeat. Geralt smiles softly, closing his eyes again, and rests on his husband's shoulder as if it's the most comfortable place he's ever laid his head. Emhyr kisses Geralt's soft white hair, breathes along with him, and resists the urge to make promises he can't keep about how long he'll stay.


	4. Chapter 4

The Emperor leaves the morning of the third day after his return, and Dandelion is relieved.

Dandelion must admit that, despite his bold actions and even bolder words, he did find himself feeling a bit meek at the reappearance of Geralt's husband. For all Dandelion professes to be unfazed by the Emperor, he remains uncomfortably aware that Emhyr possesses the power to have his head parted from his body in Millennium Square. After taking all factors into consideration, Dandelion determined that perhaps it was not the most opportune time for his performances to contain songs waxing poetic about how desirable he finds Emhyr's spouse. 

This is in contrast to the general _before_ , which Dandelion found to be a quite opportune time indeed. It is Geralt's court, after all, and so in Dandelion's opinion it is perfectly logical to sing of the Emperor Consort during every dinner, dance, gathering, and assorted social function at which he is asked to appear. He knows his odes to Geralt have been met with appreciation because word of them has spread not just around the palace, but noble circles in the City of Nilfgaard. Dandelion appreciates that his talents are widely praised, but what pleases him most is when someone hums bits of one of his songs or sings them under their breath. He designed them to worm into the mind of the listener and endlessly remain there, hoping they would remain in Geralt's mind, but scores of nobles are not insignificant admirers to collect. 

Dandelion has wondered on more than a few occasions whether his songs, prominent as they are, have reached the ears of the Emperor. Not that this should be a matter of concern - he is simply a bard acting in a bardly capacity, and singing the praises of his patron is well within the scope of his bardly functions. In fact, it would be a neglect of duty _not_ to glorify the Emperor Consort. Should Emhyr have a problem with Dandelion's constant public crooning about the life and merits and sculpted body of his husband, it will be yet another clear sign of his disregard for his co-ruler. Dandelion must admit that in his most fanciful moments he has wondered whether Emhyr might, at some point, become jealous of him. After all, it is Dandelion spending time with Geralt, Dandelion strengthening their association, Dandelion linking their names, Dandelion proclaiming their bond to the world. It would be most amusing, Dandelion thinks, if Emhyr were to become jealous of him, a humble bard - well, amusing until he was sent to the gallows. 

Today's major court event is a formal lunch, the Imperial Palace hosting two dukes from Metinna. From what Dandelion understands, their region is politically sensitive at the moment, and this is a gesture of respect and outreach to strengthen their ties to the Nilfgaardian Empire. With Emhyr and Cirilla both absent, Geralt has been burdened with the responsibility of acting as sole head of state and gracious host. Dandelion has, naturally, been selected as the entertainment for this incredibly important event. He was already thrilled at the prospect of seeing his Gift of Fate at lunch, but he nearly leaps into the air and floats on a cloud of bliss when an Imperial Attendant comes to his chambers to summon him. Because, to Dandelion's amazement and glee, Geralt wishes to see him before the event. 

Dandelion isn't surprised to be taken to Geralt's apartments, having been there on several occasions, but is surprised to be led all the way through the sitting room into one of the private rooms. Something that appears to be a wardrobe and dressing room. Geralt is there, and Dandelion's breath catches when he sees Geralt is dressed only in - oh! be still, beating heart! recede, treacherous blush! - white linen underclothes. A long sleeved shirt and full length pants, but - slow, quickened breaths! - underclothes nonetheless. Dandelion might faint on the spot would a collision with the floor not damage his lute. The planes and valleys and curves of Geralt's body are apparent due to the thin and tight fitting nature of the fabric. He is more perfectly formed than the most idealistic of sculptures, hewn out of pale skin and corded muscles as if they were precious marble. His figure is even more flawless than Dandelion could have dreamed, his thighs and biceps strong and solid and his abdominal muscles impeccably chiseled and his waist slender and his rear end plump.

Oh - remain above the waist, traitorous blood. 

To Dandelion's eternal relief and despair, Geralt is in the process of being dressed by his attendants. Three of them bear a knee-length white tunic, trousers of the same color that fit close to Geralt's shapely legs, and a long white robe with a cinched waist to serve as a thin overcoat. Geralt looks exquisite undressed - how agonizingly exquisite he looks - but he looks just as resplendent when clothed. Dandelion mourns the loss of the revealing sight as Geralt is helped into the clothes, but truly, it is for the best. His traitorous blood rarely obeys his commands. 

Geralt's chamberlain is regrettably present, along with five Imperial Attendants. Dandelion bemoans his plight; the precious little time he has with Geralt has once again been marred by presence of the Imperial Bore. Geralt is leaning heavily on the unwelcome chamberlain, moving stiffly as the attendants help him into his garments, and Dandelion notices that Geralt's left ankle is covered in a thick cast of stiffened bandages. For a moment he feels the pain as if it were his own, flowing through the bond between himself and his destined witcher. 

"Your Majesty," Dandelion says with a bow.

Geralt looks over and nods. "Bard." 

Oh, how Dandelion missed Geralt. Oh, how his heart yearned for him. Oh, how his soul pined. Despite Geralt's agreement that he should perform for Emhyr, he was not summoned during the two days the Emperor was in the palace. Dandelion struggled with the inner turmoil of this; he was not forced to endure Emhyr's presence, to plaster on a frozen smile and bow and grovel to the despicable cad, but those two days of separation from his Gift of Fate were unbearable agony. He stood on his balcony sighing wistfully into the wind, wallowing in the full depth of his pain to use later in a song. But worse still was the thought of Geralt's condition. The Emperor Consort was doubtless trapped with the cruel Imperator, all but chained up, to be used as the sadist's toy at his repulsive whims. And Dandelion aches, simply aches; he may have felt true hollowness in his soul for the first time in his life, but surely Geralt feels it during every minute he's forced to act as the heartless Emperor's misused, mistreated, subservient pet. 

Geralt doubtless needs a reminder that someone genuinely values his company, after the unthinkable horrors he's endured. So Dandelion says, "It is my great honor and pleasure to experience your presence, Your Majesty." 

"Told you to call me Geralt," Geralt replies, as if he's said it a hundred times before rather than one. 

Dandelion smirks coyly. "Well, if that is what Your Majesty wishes, _Geralt_." 

"The gentleman will be seated," Cledwyn - or whatever his name is - says in his stuffy chamberlain voice. He shows no reaction to Geralt's request for Dandelion to use his name, but then again, it's nothing compared to Geralt allowing Dandelion to see him in his underwear. Dandelion is about to snark that the gentleman can't be seated with nothing to be seated on, but a chair appears behind him as if by magic, relocated by an attendant. Dandelion sits without complaint, and watches Coldwine shift Geralt's weight so the attendants can - alas, farewell sweet and fleeting moment of bliss - complete their dressing ritual by tying Geralt's robe shut. "Apologies, Your Majesty, for any discomfort you have experienced during this process." 

"Geralt, what happened to your ankle?" Dandelion asks, eyeing the bandages still visible below the hem of the long jacket. 

"Another wyvern." Geralt's voice is dry and weary. 

Dandelion lets out a delighted laugh. "Oh, Geralt, you are amusing. Your jokes do not lose their luster." Geralt gives him a brief look of confusion before looking pained again at the movement of his limbs, so Dandelion distracts him quickly. "Do you desire musical accompaniment to your beautification?" 

"No, I'll hear you in a couple minutes," Geralt says. "Just figured you could hang out here until we have to go downstairs." 

It's happening. It's _happening_. Geralt is feeling the motion of the machinations of destiny, and is allowing himself to be swept away by their current toward their final destination - a deep, true, and permanent love. Dandelion could gasp. He could sing. He could let his joy ring out to the heavens. But instead, exercising remarkable restraint, he says, "I am always happy to be graced with your esteemed company, Geralt." 

Geralt sighs in relief when Childwhine sets him down in the low-backed chair behind him, then sighs again in satisfaction as one of the attendants begins to brush out his long white hair. It's slightly damp, implying they have just bathed him, and - oh! cease lewd imaginations, perverse mind! - Dandelion distracts himself from the thoughts this conjures up by watching the hairbrush work through Geralt's glossy tresses in smooth strokes. Despite the state of relaxation the attendant's ministration to his locks has induced in him, Geralt's voice is a grumble when he says, "Fuck. Hope this thing isn't gonna run too long." 

"You aren't anticipating my triumphant performance?" Dandelion asks, pulling his mind away from fantasies of running his fingers through the Emperor Consort's beautiful hair long enough to wonder whether he should be offended. 

"No, that'll be fine. Just hate court events. Diplomacy. Rituals. All that shit. Hate it all." Geralt closes his eyes as the attendant begins to work a small braid into each side of his hair, looking pleased at the gentle tugging and twisting of the strands. He stays quiet until the attendant finishes the braids and pulls them together into a half ponytail at the back of his head, and he is the picture of beauty, soft and sweet, like a maiden preparing to celebrate a holiday. "Wouldn't go sit around with some stuffy nobles if Emhyr or Ciri were here, but somebody's gotta." 

Dandelion is startled to hear Geralt say that aloud in the presence of so many people. It would certainly be disastrous should the Emperor hear his good little Consort is openly refusing to play his part, even for a brief moment in private. Geralt is taking quite a risk, breaking character in a place where the walls have ears. But Dandelion is overcome by the trust Geralt must have in him, to express dissent and dissatisfaction and know his secrets will be kept. And it thrills him. Geralt must be reaching the end of his rope with his suffocating situation, and is crying out for help - help from Dandelion. 

"I understand. These things can be less than exciting," Dandelion replies, choosing his words carefully. He wishes to let Geralt know he is a sympathetic ear, one he can pour out his bottled up feelings to while dwelling on them until he reaches the conclusion that they are unbearable and he must escape. However, Dandelion cannot prompt Geralt into saying anything else treacherous, as he would not be able to bear it should he lure Geralt into endangering himself. It is a thin and terrible tightrope to walk. 

"It's fine. The food's good. Wasn't gonna be up to much today anyway." Geralt gestures in the direction of his injured ankle. "Might as well make nice with some Metinnese guys." 

Another attendant comes over with a gold clip, and Geralt looks even more beautiful as his hair is fastened with the shimmering jewelry, reminiscent of his shining eyes and precious heart. Geralt sighs once more as the ends of his braids are undone beneath the clip to leave the hair flowing free, and the attendant brushes it out with careful fingers. Dandelion is glad to know Geralt has at least one sanctuary where he's treated kindly and gently, even if it's only to mold him into the faultless facade of the Emperor Consort he was never created to be, dress him up like a doll made to the Emperor's specifications. A matching gold necklace is draped around his neck, a small and simple pendant on a thin chain, and Geralt shines. 

"You look magnificent, Geralt. The image of beauty and grace. Mortals will fall at your feet, stunned senseless by your allure," Dandelion says, and gets a slightly upturned lip of amusement from Geralt. "You asked what there is about you that ballads can be composed from. Have any of your attendants bring you a mirror, and I assure you, my enchanting witcher, you will see an image worth a thousand words. Oh - that's quite good. _An image is worth a thousand words_. I should make that catch on." 

Two young men enter the room, dressed in squires' livery, their tunics adorned with an image of a sun with a wolf head inside it. It's a nice symbol, if unusual. The older looking of the two squires is carrying a large metal chest engraved with the same symbol, and they walk up in front of Geralt's chair and bow. "All but the squires and I shall look away," Cauldron orders. Dandelion bristles at receiving such an order from the self-important chamberlain - how dare he presume to tell Dandelion when he is permitted to gaze upon his Gift of Fate - but acquiesces and averts his eyes, not wishing to reflect badly on the witcher who's already pushed the bounds of propriety with his earlier complaints. The noises that follow are confusing: the clicking of a latch, the creaking of a hinge, the scraping of metal, the clinking of glass, the rustling of fabric, the sliding of leather, the murmuring of _great, thanks Stefan and Oskar_ in Geralt's low and deliciously raspy voice, the snapping of a closing lid, the clomping of the two squires' boots on their way to the door. "All may return their eyes to the Emperor Consort." 

"Thank you," Dandelion says, perhaps a bit snippily. Bold of the Imperial Bother, very bold indeed, but soon they shall be rid of him. The universe is slowly but steadily moving. 

"Your Majesty, are you sure you don't wish to bring a support?" Coldwind asks Geralt, indicating his ankle. Geralt is wearing a pair of fine leather boots now, but the one on his injured foot is clearly laced more loosely than the other. "It might perhaps make your walk easier." 

"I'll be fine, Caldwyn. I'm a witcher," Geralt replies. "Can't go hobbling in on a crutch anyway." 

Cadwyn nods. "And, Your Majesty, are you certain you don't wish to summon another -"

"Told you already," Geralt says. "Witcher." 

Clodwyn nods again, more deeply this time. "As you wish, Your Majesty." 

"Gonna start painting my face, or have you dressed me up enough?" Geralt says, and gives the attendants that very faint look of amusement he gets when he's employing that charming dry wit of his. "Could use some kohl around my eyes, maybe. Unless I'm pretty enough already." 

"Geralt, have you so quickly forgotten my impromptu ode to you? You are more than gorgeous," Dandelion says, with a dramatic sweep of his arm. "You are the brilliance of the sky on a cloudless day, the magnificence of a snow-capped mountain reaching for the sun, the effervescence of a newly sprouted green leaf on a young tree in a secluded forest. Your hair is the soft rays of moonlight that gently touch the earth. Your eyes are vibrant gems set in unblemished porcelain. And your lips are lush, like the petals of a vermillion rose on the sweetest day of spring." 

"Guess I don't need any lip rouge then," Geralt says, with a little snort. "We ready to go?" 

"At your leisure, Your Majesty," Calledwan says. 

The chamberlain is at least of some use as he helps Geralt to his feet, assisted by another attendant. And, oh. _Oh_. The full sight of Geralt all done up in Emperor Consort regalia, up close, nearly sends Dandelion stumbling about for something soft upon which to gracefully swoon. Geralt is an absolute vision in the striking white clothing that so perfectly matches his delicately braided hair and the glinting gold jewelry that mirrors his lovely feline eyes. As Dandelion sees the pendant necklace, the same sun with a wolf head inside it, he suddenly understands it to be the deepest symbolism. Geralt is a poem that arose from its page, a model that stepped free of its painting, a melody that solidified into flesh. Geralt looks the way a siren's song sounds, and the floor is sand shifting under Dandelion's feet, a strong tide drawing him closer and closer. He could fall into Geralt like the deepest chasm in a cliffside, sink into him like the strongest current of a whirlpool, if only the Emperor Consort would let him. And he could remain by the witcher's side like a steadfast barnacle on a weathered rock by the sea, joined inseparably with Geralt until the end of time. If only, if only, if only. One day this will all come to pass, Dandelion knows. But that day could never come soon enough. 

"Guess I'm as ready as I'll ever be to deal with this bullshit. Tell whoever had the idea to set up this meeting that I said _thanks bunches_." Geralt turns to Dandelion. "Bard. The big scary guards at the door - couple of them are gonna follow us, like a witcher needs attack dogs. Don't freak out." 

Dandelion would not have _freaked out_ , as he is a man of great courage with much experience dealing with various guards and soldiers, but he comes to appreciate Geralt's warning as several giant men heavily armed with spears and axes and shields abruptly turn and march after them. Geralt is at the head of their group, with Cledwyn half a step behind him on his injured side to offer a supportive hand on his back when his step falters. Dandelion is on Geralt's other side, placed a similar half step behind, despite how offensive it is for him - Dandelion the bard! the entertainment for the evening, the musical guest of honor, the most venerated performer in this court! - to be relegated to such a position. The two squires waiting outside fall into step between Cauldron and Dandelion and the group of attendants, and they make quite the procession. 

All the palace occupants they pass, staff and nobles and attendants and scholars and diplomats alike, bow to the entourage. Dandelion puts a swagger in his step when he notices their eyes are lingering on him longer than anyone but the Emperor Consort himself, and that they begin to whisper once said Emperor Consort can no longer see them. Dandelion smirks, quite satisfied. It seems his reputation has continued to spread, and surely will spread more now that he has been seen directly accompanying the subject of his songs. Before, he had not had the opportunity to make a public appearance with Geralt - no, _His Majesty_ outside the walls of his apartments - but now, the bond between him and his muse has been solidified for all to see. All as planned. 

It takes a while to reach the banquet hall in which the event will be held, as the palace is a massive glimmering labyrinthian nightmare, but with all the attention they're receiving it's not nearly long enough for Dandelion. However, it's clearly enough for Geralt; he's stiffened his walk and steadied his steps despite the pain it must be inflicting on his injured ankle, and Dandelion's heart breaks at how he must torture himself to keep up the facade of the perfect and strong husband of the Emperor. They stop in front of the doors to the hall between two additional rows of imperial guards, and Geralt's attendants rush to ensure his hair is smoothed down and his clothing is in place and his jewelry is aligned, despite the look on Geralt's face that displays how he feels about the poking and prodding and primping. They fall immediately back into formation, and Geralt claps Clodwine on the shoulder. "Thanks, Caldwyn. Appreciate all your help. I'll take the walking thing from here." Geralt nods to the guards to open the door, then turns to Dandelion and says, "Don't fall on your ass." 

The banquet hall is massive, and there are far more people than Dandelion expected. All people of high status, high wealth, and a high sense of self-importance. They stand immediately and execute deep formal bows in unison, holding the position like deferential statues. If Dandelion is frank, a whole room of Nilfgaard's finest posing like a sculpture garden looks comical. Nilfgaard does have a way of aiming for the impressive and producing the ridiculous. Caldwyn announces loudly to the assembled, "His Imperial Majesty, Vatt'ghern Gwynbleidd aep Kaer Morhen, Deithwenbleidd aep Ceas'raet, Emperor Consort of Nilfgaard, Geralt of Rivia." 

And then they walk in, Dandelion smiling triumphantly barely a half step behind the Emperor Consort's side. 

The rest of the function is so uneventful as to be barely of note. After a morning spent in Geralt's chambers and entourage, nothing could compare. Nothing could compete with those precious fleeting moments, the thousand-word images inscribed into the very tissue of his brain forevermore. To sing of, to dream of, to remind Geralt of when, decades from now, they banter: _remember that time you were Emperor Consort of Nilfgaard?_ and the reply, _I still can't believe that happened_. Dandelion performs the traditional songs of Nilfgaard and Metinna with full power if not full attention, but sneaks a few subtle odes to Geralt between them; they're vague, and don't mention Geralt by name or distinguishing features, but certainly people will know. If not by the lyrics themselves, then by the way Dandelion can't take his eyes off Geralt the whole time he sings them. And the way that Dandelion smiles at Geralt when the witcher finally looks in his direction. The way the bored expression melts from Geralt's face as he gives Dandelion a quirk of his lips and upward roll of his eyes. The way Dandelion keeps smiling at him, keeps smiling the whole time, providing Geralt a secret escape. 

A few days after the second wyvern hunt, Geralt still doesn't have a lot going on. He's got injuries going on, but that's about it. Caldwyn's been discouraging Geralt from sparring so much he's actually offered to play Gwent with him, and done it without looking like he's suffering. Caldwyn's also been roped into being the scribe and sketch artist for the new Gwent deck Geralt's designing, though he wouldn't help Geralt redesign the Emhyr var Emreis cards from the Nilfgaard deck to be a little more rude and a lot more naked. Geralt's cleaned and polished his armor and weapons so many times his squires are obviously worrying he'll wear them out, but they aren't saying anything about it. His attendants keep trying to distract him with baths and massages and hair brushing, but there's only so long a restless witcher can be wrangled. It's not very long. So everyone, not just Geralt, is relieved when Ciri gets back. 

"Hello, Roachie," Ciri says, when she meets Geralt and his horse in the stables to go out riding. Geralt's not supposed to be riding for another day or two according to the healers, but he's been riding horses while half dead for a century and nobody was going to stop him. "You're looking very lovely today." 

"She wanted to wear her favorite outfit," Geralt says, straightening up Princess Roach's saddle. He still thinks the fancy horse clothes are the typical Nilfgaardian kind of ridiculous, but Princess Roach loves her capes and coats and hats and helmets, so Geralt dresses her up. He's designed a couple outfits for her, because he doesn't trust anybody called a _horse tailor_ to understand his picky princess enough to figure out the right fabrics and lengths and weights and colors she likes without trying a hundred stupid jackets on her, let alone come up with something protective enough for her to wear on a hunt without ruining her mobility. Geralt feels ridiculous riding around the grounds on a horse that looks like she's on her way to a beauty contest, but it makes her happy. Today she's got on her thin black jacket with the gold trim and little black hat with a golden sun on her forehead. She likes the hat because it reminds her of the helmet she wears when she's going to run towards something dangerous. Princess Roach might have expensive tastes in clothes and food and lodging, but she's happiest when she's galloping around in her battle crown with a barely alive Geralt slumped on her. She's still a witcher's horse, after all. 

"Well, she looks beautiful." Ciri pets Princess Roach's nose and then turns to Geralt, smiling as she pulls him into a hug. "You, I'm just happy to see in one piece." 

Ciri sets the pace as they head out on their horses, and if she sets it a little slower than usual because of the way Geralt's left ankle is still wrapped in bandages inside his riding boot and there's a bit of his leg that hasn't finished growing back, neither of them points it out. The Palace grounds aren't big enough for two witchers to have a good time, but Ciri didn't want to go on a long distance ride because they'd have to drag a bunch of Impera Brigade guards with them and she's been traveling around the Continent too much lately, so they stick within its boundaries. They're quiet until they put some distance between themselves and the Palace, though, because it's nice to talk alone like they used to. 

"What did I miss around here?" Ciri asks, once they're inside a shady grove of trees. "And don't ask what you missed on my diplomatic trip to Nazair - it was boring and I hated it." 

Geralt lets out an amused huff of a laugh. Ciri gets him, and he gets her. They're on the same page with this formality shit. She might be both his and Emhyr's daughter, but it's clear who raised her. "Missed an aristocratic visit yesterday. Dukes from Metinna - think you heard about them." 

"Not exactly a shame," Ciri replies. Her voice is flat. "I was forced to have dinner with them when I went to Metinna a few months ago and they killed every conversation. The silence was so awkward I wanted to shift into a different world." 

"Didn't mind them," Geralt says, and there's still the smallest twinge of pain from the almost-healed wyvern talon wounds across his torso and arm when he shrugs. "Well. As much as I'm not gonna mind aristocrats." 

Ciri smiles wryly. "You didn't mind them because they didn't try to say more than three words to you." 

"My kind of guys," Geralt says. He likes it when their guests don't drag him into conversations. He's not one for talking, especially not about the court and politics shit that the kind of people who are royal guests usually talk about. 

"Did you talk to the dukes at all? Or anyone?" Ciri asks. She's giving him a long-suffering look, and so is the random horse she picked out of the stable to give her own horse a break after all that travel. Geralt's a little suspicious of this horse. She and Ciri have somehow got the same expression on. It's weird. "Did you just sit there glowering?" 

"Said a couple words to them." Geralt shrugs again. It hurts less this time. Maybe his healing's finally speeding up to the point it used to be at. It's weird how slow it's gotten these last few years. "And Caldwyn. And the bard." 

"The bard." Ciri laughs. "Oh, wonderful. _That_ won't fuel the gossip at all." 

"Gossip?" Geralt looks over at her and raises an eyebrow, almost getting smacked in the head with a low hanging branch. He tunes that petty stuff out, and usually Ciri does too. Or, at least, she doesn't give enough of a shit to bring it up. So if Ciri's telling him about it, it must actually matter. 

"You really don't know - oh, of course you don't. You don't know any of the gossip, even when it's about you." Ciri shakes her head. Her horse shakes her head too. Geralt's _really_ suspicious of this horse. "I haven't even been back at the palace for a full day, and I know about it. Well, everyone is gossiping about you and Dandelion. They're saying he likes you a little too much. To put it frankly, they think he's trying to seduce you." 

"That so." Geralt figured Dandelion was just being a bard. Bards are flirty. Dandelion's a little saucy, sure, but bards act like that with everyone. "How do they figure?" 

"Geralt, you are oblivious." Ciri sighs. Her horse sighs. "Dandelion writes songs about you, constantly. He sings them everywhere, to anyone who will listen. He's practically turned into your personal barker. And have you noticed he only writes songs about _you_ , not me or Papa?" 

"I'm the one who sees him," Geralt points out. It'd be a little weird if Dandelion started singing The Ballad of Emhyr and Ciri Who He Hasn't Even Met at him. 

"Yes, and you see him quite often, if the rumors are to be believed. Don't you think the songs are a bit... flowery?" Ciri asks, then pauses like she's trying to think of a better way to put it. A way Geralt is more likely to get it. "Exactly the kind of thing someone would write about someone they're trying to seduce?" 

"Don't know. Wasn't really thinking about it." Geralt has never had anyone write him songs to seduce him before, so he doesn't know what they would sound like. And he's not sure what a _flowery_ song is. 

But now that Ciri's put the idea in his head and he's thinking about it, maybe all this stuff _is_ a little more than bardly. Maybe she's got a point about Dandelion only writing songs about him and not Emhyr or Ciri, since it's more their court than it is his. Maybe the way Dandelion looks at him is intense, and his compliments get very detailed. Maybe Dandelion does act past how bards usually act. It's possible. It doesn't sound right, but Geralt doesn't know enough about bards to dispute it. 

"Oh, you are hopeless," Ciri says, but she's smiling fondly when she looks at him. At least her horse doesn't copy that look. "I missed you." 

"Missed you too." Geralt smiles back, and stretches his hand out so Ciri will put her hand in his. "Glad we get to spend some time together. I barely see you." 

"I'm sorry, Geralt," Ciri says, and squeezes his hand. "I wish I could be here to see you more, but..." 

"I know. Duty calls. Just like your Papa. Never see him either." Geralt looks out at the path ahead of them, the stretch of trees that seems endless until he remembers that behind them all there's a fence. Ciri's hand slowly slips out of his, and Geralt looks back over to her to see her face has dropped, and immediately feels bad. "I'm sorry, Ciri. Wasn't fair of me to compare you like that. I know you miss him too." 

"Yes," Ciri admits, and now she's looking out at the trees too. "But what I miss more is the three of us together." 

Geralt feels a stab through his heart, thinking about how her whole life Ciri's been searching for family only to have something go wrong. Parents and grandparents die or disappear, fellow witchers die or get carried away by the Path, companions die or betray her or part ways. Couples who were raising her die and come back to life and lose their memories and get them back and get back together only to split up. Geralt's the only person Ciri's consistently had, and even then, she hasn't always had him. Finally it seemed like she could settle down in one place, a permanent home, with a set of married parents that would stay together and be around for her. Not on the run from anything, for the first time since she was a small child. Stable. And then, something else started tugging on the strings of that pretty tapestry. The very Empire that brought their family unit together. 

"Yeah," Geralt says finally, and nudges Princess Roach closer so he can put a hand on Ciri's shoulder. "I miss that too." 

They're quiet for a while, until they reach the bend in the trail that will lead them around in a loop back to where they came from. It's nice, being out here with Ciri. Just riding together in silence, with no one bothering them, like they used to. 

"Has Papa at least been spending time with you when he's here?" Ciri asks, once they turn the bend. Geralt regrets making that comment. It was a half a second observation, something he could've kept his mouth shut about, and it turned into this whole thing where Ciri's worried about him being lonely. His daughter shouldn't have to worry about her dad like this, and he shouldn't be making this her problem. He says _hm_ , because that lets him get out of answering shit a lot of the time, but it never does with Ciri. Ciri gives him the Look that says she's not going to stop until he's honest. And so does her horse. That goddamn horse.

"Not much," Geralt finally admits. 

Geralt knew Emhyr would be busy handling everything that stacked up at the Palace while he was gone, because that was a lot of shit. And not only did he have to handle that shit, he had to try to pre-handle any shit that might stack up the next time he had to go away. Still, Geralt hoped he'd get a little more time with Emhyr. He went to one of Emhyr's million meetings with him, but it was about some boring shit he knew nothing about and just sitting next to his husband not getting to talk to him or hug him wasn't as satisfying as he hoped it'd be. He also hung out in Emhyr's study, but that wasn't much better, because there were too many people coming in and out for him to really cuddle up to Emhyr or work him up enough that he'd bend Geralt over his desk and plough him. Geralt used to be able to get Emhyr to do that, back in the day, touching him and kissing his neck and whispering filthy things in his ear between visitors until Emhyr snapped and ordered the guards to get out and make sure they weren't disturbed for the next two hours, but this time he couldn't get Emhyr to break. There were too many visitors, and Emhyr kept swatting his wandering hands. But at least Geralt and Emhyr got a little time together while getting undressed at night, got to snuggle up together and sleep in the same bed, and that's one of the things Geralt's been missing most. Cuddling in peace with his husband. 

"Has Papa been doing anything to keep the romance alive?" Ciri says, and they both share a snort of laughter that's audible even over the sound of the horses' hooves at the thought of Emhyr being romantic. "In his own way, you know. Nice dinners, gifts of fancy armor and weapons, maybe a book about ancient monsters, anything like that?" 

"Uh." Geralt thinks. "No." 

Ciri shakes her head and sighs. "You two are impossible." 

"Your fault we like each other," Geralt points out. "I was happy to keep telling the smug asshole where to shove -" 

"I know. I was there," Ciri replies, sounding exasperated. Her horse lets out a snort of exasperation as well. "I'm sure you two could still be sniping at each other to this day. I could have two fathers who couldn't stand each other, stubborn grumpy old men who couldn't be in each others' presence for ten minutes and made me choose between them on holidays and refused to admit they were lonely. But I didn't want that, and neither of you did either, you just wouldn't say it. I wanted the three of us to be a family. I wanted all three of us to have each other - you, me, and Papa." 

"You were always smarter than both of us put together," Geralt says, because he's struggling to think of what to say to that. He's not good with words and feelings, not like Ciri. Emhyr isn't either. She's not just smarter than both of them, she's more mature. "Don't worry about it, Ciri. You got enough to worry about, becoming Empress. Not your problem whether your old dad's stick-up-the-ass husband is bringing him roses under the moonlight. Okay?" 

"Okay," Ciri says, but she has that look on her face she gets when she's absolutely going to meddle and there's nothing anyone can do about it. Her horse is starting to get a scheming look too, and - shit, they really have to put that thing back. Geralt's concerned about what Ciri's planning, _and_ what that horse is planning. He's going to tell the stablehands to keep an eye on her. "Round of Gwent?" 

"I could go for some Gwent," Geralt agrees, and they head back towards the Palace together, enjoying a few last moments within the quiet and sheltered grove of trees. "Designed my own deck. You should take a look, tell me what you think. Also redesigning a couple cards from the Nilfgaard deck, not going to show you those, though..." 

"I won't ask," Ciri says. "But I _will_ beat you in a game of Gwent with your own deck." 

Geralt grins, and leans over to hold his arm out to his daughter until she leans into it and lets him wrap it around her. "That's my girl." 

Emhyr's bones ache. His back hurts. His joints are stiff. Much to his displeasure, it is apparent: he is getting old. Geralt would scoff at him - _think you're old? try being over a century_ \- but it's undeniable. Emhyr var Emreis is getting old. 

Today's assortment of aches and pains have been brought on by the circumstances of his travel. Emhyr had two days in the Imperial Palace, mostly to endure meetings and briefings and discussions and readings while wishing he could simply tell the lot of them to engage in vigorous self-fornication. And then he was whisked away again, this time to Vicovaro. The carriage ride was not kind to his weary frame, and the bed he has been put in at this castle is second only in discomfort to the furniture throughout the rest of it. While Emhyr is satisfied that he has been given one of the largest castles in the region for the duration of his visit, he does not appreciate that it is strangely designed and unusually cold for late spring and furnished with torture devices. The study in which Emhyr now finds himself, despite the fireplace, is coldest of all. Emhyr closes his eyes and rubs his fingers over his temples, taking a moment to imagine being home - specifically, curled up in his large and soft bed with his warm and comforting husband. Geralt says all witchers run hot, and Emhyr isn't sure if it's true, but he could use that warmth right now. 

"Morwenna, please do something about this place," Emhyr says, opening his eyes slowly. "Begin with the forsaken inflictor of agony that is the excuse for my bed." 

As the sorceress departs to mitigate his lodgings' shortcomings, Emhyr closes his eyes again. His mind resumes mulling over the documents from Cirilla he read on the carriage ride here: her progress report on her training to become Empress, her advisors' reports, and her personal statement regarding her own thoughts and feelings on her state of readiness. Emhyr and Cirilla were supposed to hold an in-person meeting to discuss the documents in depth, but of course, he was called away again. He has conflicting feelings about them. While she seems to be developing a ruler's mindset, she feels she has a lot to learn and continues to require heavy supervision along her path towards ascension of the throne. Her advisors have assessed her as very astute and well-attuned to the needs of her future subjects and cognizant of opportunities to improve their lives under Nilfgaardian rule, but far from proficient in political statecraft. Emhyr is proud of his daughter, but agrees with the joint conclusion that she is not close to ready to step into the role of Empress, even with his guidance. 

What haunts Emhyr more, however, is his own report on the state of the Empire for Cirilla. He has not finished it, which is perhaps the most telling aspect of it. He would like to claim this is entirely because he has been excruciatingly busy, but part of him suggests an additional and less straightforward explanation. That perhaps he feels if he waits a bit longer, the outlook will be more positive: better news to report, more loose ends tied up, a simpler and more pleasant state of affairs. His own document on his journey towards preparing for abdication will be much shorter and more grim than Cirilla's, and together, they do not make a promising pair. Cirilla has much to learn, and Emhyr has much to fix. 

"Mererid, fetch me another cup of tea," Emhyr says, holding out his empty cup without opening his eyes. As his chamberlain departs Emhyr mutters under his breath, "If you wish to put alcohol in it, I will not object." 

As often happens when he thinks of Cirilla, Emhyr's mind drifts to her other father. He left Geralt behind again, despite both of their wishes. Geralt was injured, and this was supposed to be a quick trip spent mostly on the road; it seemed wiser to have Geralt recuperate in comfort than be jostled about in a carriage and find himself deathly bored by the trade negotiations awaiting them. Emhyr hopes he does not come to regret his decision through another monster-related incident. His trip to Gemmera was far from the first time he's come home to find Geralt wounded and rambling about some sharp-clawed creature. Geralt could certainly find trouble if he were to go looking for it, and should anyone come to him with a problem, he will doubtless abandon his promise to Emhyr to rest and recover and dash towards it with reckless abandon. Geralt is clearly growing restless, even moreso than his baseline, and is uninterested in Emhyr's proposed solutions. While Geralt was willing to consider attempting to devise methods to allow Nilfgaardian Army soldiers to fight creatures that ordinarily only a witcher can best, he made it clear he was unwilling to risk lives by sending unenhanced humans with no magic at their disposal up against beasts far outside their capabilities without a guarantee they would not be slaughtered. It is also evident Geralt will not be satisfied unless he's in the field himself, his bleeding heart yearning to save everyone. Geralt, the Emperor's foolish and heroic husband, determined to save everyone but himself. 

Mererid returns with Emhyr's tea, something bland he doesn't bother to identify. Emhyr sips it, then makes up his mind. "Put something strong in it." 

Geralt's foolishness was, in truth, what allowed them to grow closer. It would be laughable looking back on it, had Geralt not suffered grievous harm in the process. Emhyr and Geralt's love story is gruesome. It is a story of family, redemption, struggle, and hard-won home - however, it is one punctuated with repeated incidences of Geralt sustaining some dreadful injury and Emhyr blatantly dodging any inquiries regarding why he had taken a suspicious amount of interest in the witcher's recovery. It was perhaps twisted, the way Emhyr appreciated the opportunity these injuries posed, but he came to find out Geralt felt the same. There was something perversely romantic about the way Geralt was perfectly happy to tolerate grisly wounds if it gave him and Emhyr the chance to show gentleness to each other when they had not yet become able to be emotionally vulnerable with each other. 

Such was their ridiculousness that Emhyr might not have proposed to Geralt were it not for the Monstrous Scorpion venom. Others may have seen a horrific and torturous experience that even a witcher would struggle to endure, but Geralt and Emhyr saw an excuse for their greatest exchange of tenderness and openness yet. Emhyr never told Geralt why he stayed with him through that particular terrible night, wiping the sweat from his brow and the sick from his lips, or about the painfully honest things Geralt mumbled out in his fevered delirium. In turn, Geralt never asked. It was the sheer terror at the prospect of losing Geralt and the need to protect him with the full force of his power that made Emhyr finally acknowledge he wanted Geralt by his side forever. Emhyr nearly proposed marriage to the dazed and dirty and ill witcher the moment he slipped out of his haze of hallucinations, but was wise enough to wait until Geralt was more lucid to suggest he become his Emperor Consort. Nonetheless, he selected Geralt's engagement ring in secret the very next day. 

Mererid returns with the adjusted tea, a loose paper, and his own leather envelope of documents. Emhyr can smell the alcohol before the teacup is anywhere close to his face, and he nods approvingly. It turns out to be a strong wine with the slightest splash of a tea so flavorless it might be water in it for appearances. Emhyr sips it, and feels instant relief.

"Very good, Mererid. Very good." Emhyr takes another sip of the heady wine and sighs. "Any pressing matters to report?" 

"We have received a missive from the Palace," Mererid replies, holding the loose paper out to Emhyr in case he wishes to take it. Emhyr does not. "Mundane, routine. Nothing of urgency." 

"So am I to understand my husband has been keeping himself amused without being mauled?" Emhyr says, without a glance at the paper, and Mererid takes the cue to tuck it into the envelope. "I presume I would be informed if I had become a widower." 

"I had been meaning to speak to Your Majesty about Your Majesty's husband, but there was not an opportune time..." Mererid begins. Emhyr raises an eyebrow, and Mererid says, "The Emperor Consort has been spending quite a bit of time with the Bard in Residence." 

"Has he." Emhyr downs another mouthful of wine. "And is the bard a good addition to my court?" 

"The bard has... caught the court's interest. Many are discussing him in a wide variety of circles," Mererid says. The way he says it is clearly prompting Emhyr to ask more, because Mererid, tight-lipped as he may seem, is a terrible gossip. Emhyr knows this, and he appreciates it.

Emhyr raises his eyebrow again. "Are they." 

"Yes. They are, ah, suggesting some things about the bard. Before coming to Your Majesty's court, he had a reputation for being something of a philanderer. He cavorted with a wide variety of individuals, but was known as a seducer of royalty. Married royalty in particular. This reputation is being discussed again, within the court. Perhaps because as of late, the bard has been very productive in his craft." Mererid clears his throat, seeming to have difficulty maintaining his usual judgementally impassive expression. "Specifically, he has written a great number of pieces about His Majesty the Emperor Consort." 

Emhyr raises the same eyebrow further, draining the alcohol from his cup and setting it down on the edge of his desk with a bit of force. "Has he." 

"I have, ah, obtained the lyrics to some of the bard's songs. Only a small sampling of many." Mererid holds the papers out like something utterly distasteful, and grimaces when Emhyr takes them from him. "If it pleases Your Majesty to peruse them." 

Emhyr scans the paper on top for one moment, which turns out to be one moment too many, then flings all of them aside with an expression of disdain. "Drivel. Terrible drivel." 

"Drivel indeed, Your Majesty," Mererid agrees.

Emhyr plans to end his interaction with the rubbish there, but something is still irking him. More than one thing. Several things. He snatches the top sheet of lyrics back up and scans it again. "Terrible drivel, and contemptibly factually incorrect. Geralt was not born in Rivia; the surname was an adoption at Kaer Morhen and later officially conferred through knighthood. He does not enjoy traveling in the rain; it painfully inflames his chronic knee injury and stiffens his joints. He has not "roamed from northernmost Poviss to easternmost Zerrikania"; he has not been further west than Kovir. He does not "leap gladly into unknown danger through mysterious portals"; he loathes portals, for he has a severe phobia of them and they make him nauseated. And he has far from "hung up his swords". What poet hasn't the slightest clue about his muse?" 

"No true poet," Mererid replies with undisguised contempt. 

"I have no concern regarding the bard." Emhyr's voice comes out imperiously haughty, but it is not unwarranted. "It's clear he has not gotten to know Geralt in any depth, and so I am not troubled that they may have become close. _Hung up his swords_ , of all things. Not in the least. The difficult fool is still determined to die with a sword in hand, in the middle of an unnecessary battle." 

Emhyr sighs, rubbing his hand over his forehead. He had already thought about that enough, and now the bard's inane prattling has brought it back. He's had Geralt's guards keep a closer eye on the Emperor Consort since the incidents with the wyverns, but that matters very little. They can't stop Geralt from going on hunts, only report his expeditions to Emhyr, and often not in a timely fashion. Even then, all Emhyr could do about it is worry. The instincts get very strong at times to order Geralt to remain on the palace grounds and direct the Impera Brigade to keep him there by force if necessary - Nilfgaard's imperial structure _does_ grant the Emperor the authority to exercise full control over the Emperor Consort. But not only would this be a severe violation of Emhyr and Geralt's marriage contract and a gross disrespect of Geralt's autonomy, it is simply impractical. No guards could stop a witcher determined to escape short of shackling him in a dungeon, and the thought of imprisoning his husband horrifies Emhyr. A decade earlier Emhyr had no reservations about doing so and would not hesitate for a moment before ordering Geralt to be locked up, but things have changed significantly. Now, he would never subjugate or torment Geralt in such a manner. Emhyr made a promise not to restrict or control his foolish witcher, and he's learned his lesson about trying to exert his power as Emperor over his lover. The last time he did that, between his failed attempt to propose to Geralt and his successful one, he almost lost the love of his life for good. 

Some days, Emhyr feels he may still lose Geralt. Perhaps to a monster, perhaps to an assassination plot, perhaps to the call of the witcher's Path, or perhaps to the slow dissolution of their marriage bonds. He has not done a good job of holding his husband's heart lately, and in his darkest moments, he fears it could slip through his hands. 

But Emhyr is not afraid of losing Geralt to a bard. A simple bard who writes asinine drivel and can't accurately identify Geralt's feelings about the weather. 

"Let the bard sing of the beauty and strength of the Emperor Consort of Nilfgaard," Emhyr says, tossing the papers onto the ground and not bothering to watch as they slide across the cold stone floor. "Let the praises of my beloved ring through the corridors of the Imperial Palace and across the far reaches of the grounds. And let the courtiers laugh at the musical jester's delusions, and my husband wrinkle his nose at the nonsense. Dismissed."


	5. Chapter 5

It's a lovely sunny afternoon, and Geralt has invited Dandelion to accompany him to the palace gardens. Or, rather, he summoned Dandelion to his chambers to perform a song or two and, as has become their custom, Dandelion invited himself along on whatever adventures comprise Geralt's plans for the rest of the day. Geralt raised an eyebrow the first time Dandelion extended himself this invitation, half-raised it the second time, then didn't raise it again. Geralt is the Emperor Consort, Dandelion reasons; if Geralt didn't wish Dandelion to join him in his wanderings, he would simply tell Dandelion not to join him in his wanderings. 

But Geralt does not tell him that, and so join him Dandelion does. Generally, the timeline is such: Dandelion will be called to Geralt's apartments in the early afternoon, sit with him for a while regaling him with his charming conversational virtuosity and transcendental musical creations, follow him to his private dining room for a sumptuous lunch, and then go gallivanting around the palace to wherever the Emperor Consort leads him. Generally this will be Geralt's study, the library, the sunrooms, the greenhouse, the training grounds, or the gardens; not the most thrilling of locations, but they become truly magical places while they are serving as the backdrop for scenes in the unfolding love story that will be told throughout the ages - that of Dandelion the Bard and Geralt of Rivia, his Gift of Fate. 

This new state of affairs has nearly caused apoplexy in Geralt's insufferable chamberlain, who seems to have been in a week long anxiety spiral about _the impropriety_ , which Dandelion considers an additional benefit. Dandelion has been forced to regularly be in the Imperial Imposition's presence, as it turns out _he_ was constantly trailing Geralt like an aggravating and unsettlingly tall shadow before Dandelion showed up to be a much more pleasant one, but repeated exposure to him has developed in Dandelion the ability to block his looming existence out. Same with Geralt's attendants, who are also frequently present, but less obtrusively so than - Caldwine? Cladwyn? Coldwon? Dandelion still does not know his name and does not care to. Truly, Dandelion is doing Geralt a service by monopolizing his time, reducing the amount available to the detestable chamberlain for the infliction of his boresome blatherings upon the long-suffering Emperor Consort. 

Geralt complains about neither of the forms of Dandelion's accompaniment to his travels - the physical kind, and the musical kind. Emboldened by the Emperor Consort's tacit permission, Dandelion has begun singing and playing his lute as he follows Geralt through the halls of the palace, basking in the glory of his fated companion. Dandelion is living in the heaven of every bard who has ever found their soul called by that of a muse, even moreso one previously considered untouchable. It has by now become a common sight, Dandelion trailing Geralt plucking at his lute and crooning a ballad, and yet there has been no decrease in the fervor with which it set the palace alight. 

There is a lot of talk of Dandelion and Geralt's relationship now, and a lot of rumors regarding it. Were Dandelion given to dramatics, he might describe the developing situation as _a massive scandal of epic proportions_. The whispers and stares of the various palace occupants and guests have continued, growing steadily more open until they have become nearly brazen, though they have at least retained the decency to snap their mouths shut and turn their eyes away after a hasty respectful bow to the Emperor Consort when they are caught gawking at him and his devoted bard. All the attention has Dandelion preening, as does the speculation. Geralt seems to enjoy Dandelion's company and be amused by the reactions to it, and Dandelion is enjoying following his Gift of Fate day in and day out singing his praises and watching others glower with envy, so they're both getting what they want. It is the perfect arrangement. 

Emhyr must have heard about this by now, Dandelion thinks. With the way they've got the whole court talking, Emhyr _must_ know. And this thrills Dandelion. Perhaps he has been getting cocky, but - he's been allowed to continue living his best life for long enough that it seems likely Emhyr isn't planning to interfere with it. Perhaps Dandelion's stunning popularity is deterring him from any retaliation, as he knows it would be a deeply unpopular decision. Perhaps Emhyr is intimidated by how thoroughly Dandelion can capture the positive graces of the Emperor Consort, when Geralt has no doubt taken no joy from Emhyr in a long time. Perhaps Emhyr finds it humiliating, how Geralt is happy to spend all day in Dandelion's presence while he is desperate to get out of Emhyr's. 

Emhyr's unbearable snobby wretch of a chamberlain - really, he makes Geralt's stuffy annoyance look downright pleasant - scolded Dandelion again today. He has been frequently making comments about how _the gentleman's behavior is highly inappropriate_ and _the gentleman shall exercise better restraint_ and _the gentleman's musical stylings are unappreciated in the hallways_ , but never actually tells Dandelion to do anything, so Dandelion has chosen to take the opinion of Nilfgaardian high society and the Emperor Consort himself over a loathsome chamberlain airing his grievances. He has never paid attention to the obnoxious prick before and has never faced consequences for it. Only time will tell if Dandelion will find himself worming his way out of getting his head set on the chopping block, but that's a grisly bridge to cross when they get to it. Either way, Emhyr likely won't be surprised when his husband runs off with Dandelion. 

So today they are in the gardens. Or, to be precise, the Imperial Couple's private courtyard. It's a lovely courtyard, spacious but not vast, granted security and privacy by the tall fences surrounding it on all sides behind a dense layer of hedges. There are flat stone paths running through the courtyard, passing through various plant patches and seating areas and trees, with a small pond in the center. Geralt is wearing another loose white linen outfit, one that now makes Dandelion struggle to subdue unruly memories - recede, titillating images! - due to the vague resemblance it bears to his underthings. Regardless, Geralt looks lovely, the sunbeams doing wonders for his radiant feline eyes and lustrous ivory hair. He's wearing his wolf medallion, a lovely momento of the nostalgic days past, but it now feels like a promise of the future. Mercifully, Geralt's chamberlain was ditched at the entrance to the courtyard entrance - well, Geralt sent him to see _if Ciri's done with that lesson stuff and ready to hang out, thanks Caldwyn_ , but Dandelion considers his departure a personal victory nonetheless - and Dandelion can employ his seduction skills in peace. He plans to take full advantage of the opportunity.

"Want you to meet somebody," Geralt says once they're in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by patches of plants and standing next to the central pond. 

"Oh?" Dandelion has a brief shock of panic, thinking Emhyr might appear - he _did_ just return to the palace last night after an extended stretch of absence, an absence which might have made Dandelion bolder in his wooing of Emhyr's husband, but never mind that. To Dandelion's confusion, however, Geralt sits on the ground beside the pond. The courtyard is so well-kept that Geralt doesn't get so much as a speck of dirt on his nice white linen clothes as he leans over and looks into the water. 

"Yeah." Geralt dips his fingers into the pond. After a moment the water around them ripples and something large and shiny appears. A fish, but not just any fish - a golden carp. Dandelion looks at it in surprise and amazement. It's hard to stun him after the things he's seen while sleeping his way through courts across the Continent, but he's never even heard of a fish like that. And yet here one is, trying to eat the Emperor Consort of Nilfgaard's fingers. "Fish." 

"It is a lovely fish," Dandelion replies, unsure why Geralt framed showing him a fish as _introducing him to someone_ , but he sits down on the ground beside the pond nonetheless and marvels at the carp. It truly is a beautiful fish, long and smooth with delicate fins and scales that glimmer in the sunlight.

"His name's Emhyr carp Emreis," Geralt says, sounding amused by his own pun. "It was Muireseb'sael aep Ard Faeinn or some shit before I moved into the palace, but I renamed him." Geralt pulls his fingers out of the carp's nibbling mouth, out of reach of its lips and whiskers. It angles its body up to be petted and Geralt gives it a little smile, something soft in his eyes that nearly dissolves Dandelion - be strong, soft and vulnerable heart! - right there beside the pond. "A lot of animals don't like me. Cats hate me. Carp loves me, though. Don't you, Emhyr carp Emreis?" Geralt strokes the fish's smooth head and it wriggles happily. "Bet you can guess how happy Emhyr was about that name." 

Dandelion can, and again mourns the dismal response to Geralt's sense of humor - well, he is not so blinded by infatuation that he can't admit the pun is perhaps deserving of a groan, but it should receive appreciation nonetheless. "You are... close with this fish?" Dandelion asks, unsure of how to describe a relationship between an Emperor Consort and the palace garden's fish. 

"Yeah. I come hang out with him sometimes. Talk to him," Geralt says, giving the carp's back a few gentle rubs that have the fish looking delighted. Dandelion doesn't know how he can sense the fish's emotions, but he can, and he too would be delighted were he in the fish's place. "Usually talk to my horse, Princess Roach, but she's got too many opinions and tells me if I'm being an idiot. Carp's a lot nicer. Right, beag feainnvis?" 

Dandelion feels something within him rend in twain at how lonely Geralt is. How deprived he is of genuine companionship. Geralt is talking to horses and fish, so desperate is he for something that will listen to him. Dandelion knows, yet again, that his presence here is no accident. Geralt needs someone to listen to him, and Dandelion is precisely that person; he is, has been, and will continue to be, as long as Geralt will let him. Dandelion watches Geralt retrieve a small metal container of fish food from where it's stashed within a rock structure next to the pond, then drops a few pieces into the water. Geralt's face is still the softest Dandelion has ever seen it as the carp leaps in joy, slurping at the water around the food and sucking it up. The expression, despite its warmth, reveals the wounds in Geralt's gentle nurturing soul. 

When Geralt finishes feeding the fish he puts back the container and gives its head a few more gentle strokes. "Want to write a song about the carp? If it's good you can write a song for Princess Roach, but she's a lot pickier." 

"Of course, Geralt. I'd be happy to," Dandelion says, a bit sadly, and the tenderness with which Geralt treats a creature who shows him the slightest bit of empathy is excruciating. Dandelion wishes he could turn the actual Emhyr into a fish and toss _him_ into a pond. After a while of letting Geralt quietly enjoy the carp's company, Dandelion lightens the mood with a bit of flirty banter. "That is, if I can still my pen from crafting odes to you for even one moment." 

"Uh. Yeah. About those songs." Geralt's demeanor is awkward, uncertain, a look Dandelion's never seen on him before. "Not sure if I'm getting the wrong idea or you're getting the wrong idea or the people talking about them are getting the wrong idea or -" 

So Geralt _has_ heard the rumors! Not just the talk of Dandelion's renown, but the growing whispers suggesting he may be carrying a flame for the white flame's spouse. Dandelion smirks and puts his hand on the Emperor Consort's knee, the chance of it being cut off later by a guard unknowingly spying on them be damned. The moment has come, _finally_ come, for Dandelion to address the feelings brewing between them. Indirectly, of course. They're not all the way there yet; while he'd love to confess the depths of his devotion to Geralt, invoking metaphors of seas and valleys and abysses, that could still scare him off. "There are no wrong ideas in this situation, my dear Emperor Consort - merely differing interpretations. Let the rumors come, let the people gab and gossip, what does it matter to us? We know what is between us, and that is what matters." 

"I guess." Geralt lifts his fingers out of the carp's pond and wipes them off on his trousers. "Think they actually believe you're trying to hit on me? Seems like there'd be some stuff to consider. I mean, I'm married. And my husband's powerful royalty." 

"Ah, my dear Geralt, how little you know of my prior exploits." Dandelion winks. "A marriage here, a royal title there - they've never stopped me before." 

"Huh." Geralt crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. "I mean, we're not just married. Emhyr and I have a daughter." 

"That also hasn't stopped me in the past." Dandelion leans in closer, and purrs seductively, "I'll confess I've always found fatherhood to be an attractive trait in a man."

Dandelion is playing a dangerous game, and he knows it, but he's been playing a dangerous game for weeks. It's the best game he's ever played. He doesn't enjoy games without at least a hint of danger, and this one has a full onslaught of it. 

"So you think they'd actually believe it? You and me?" Geralt asks. "Wouldn't think all that stuff, the marriage and the daughter and the Emperor, were disqualifying factors?" 

"Given my history? Certainly not." Dandelion snorts. "Leaving aside that prior entanglements don't _have_ to be disqualifying factors, they don't _have_ to stop two people from falling in love, and tales innumerable throughout history have proved they never do when a love is destined to be - this is a royal court. People will believe whatever they want, be it scandalous or mundane, outlandish or realistic, true or slightly less so. And _would_ it be such a ridiculous thing for them to believe? Would it really be so absurd to think that I - an aficionado of beauty both inward and outward, a connoisseur of the human soul and the human form, a cognoscente of all the wonderful traits any given person may posses - might find my affections captured by you?" 

"Not a lot of beauty and human soul to be found here. I'm not even human," Geralt says, but he's looking back towards the pond, and if Dandelion didn't know better - perhaps he doesn't - he'd think the lowering of Geralt's gaze and the slight flush on his cheeks was from shyness. It devastates him that Geralt still can't see that Dandelion has every reason in the world to fall in love with him, that his loveliness is unsurpassed, that the quality of his character is undiminishable, that he is everything good and flawless in this cruel and unforgiving world. But before Dandelion can yet again undertake the enormous task of convincing the poor broken Emperor Consort of his worth and perfection, Geralt asks, "Doesn't bother you that they're spreading those rumors?" 

"Bother me? My dear witcher, I revel in it." Dandelion sweeps his arm wide, a dramatic gesture both emphatic and declarative. "But don't mind the talk, Geralt. It doesn't matter what people say, does it? Sinless or salacious, veracious or unverifiable, it's all just hot air from the mouths of those who can only guess at the bond we share. What matters is how we feel when we're together. If you're enjoying our time together, as am I, then let us eschew the chatter and make our own fate." Dandelion places his hand back on Geralt's knee, smirking. "You can enjoy a good scandal, can't you?" 

"Guess it _is_ kind of funny," Geralt admits, looking back up at Dandelion with a little quirk of his lips. "Bunch of prissy nobles freaking out because I'm hanging out with a bard." 

"Exactly," Dandelion agrees. "Although, the Emperor's chamberlain - awful man, by the way, doesn't agree. He presumed to _scold_ me." 

Geralt snorts. "Mererid _presumes_ to scold everybody. I've heard him scold _himself_." 

Dandelion shakes his head. "If he scolded himself to behave as less of a pompous ass, he didn't listen to himself." 

Geralt snorts again, the amusement more evident this time. "If it pisses Mererid off, there's gotta be something to it." They sit in silence for a bit, nothing around them but the sound of the birds and the rustling leaves, before Geralt says, "Gonna be honest, I don't know what to think about all this." 

"Don't think. Just listen," Dandelion says, and takes his lute off his back. He's written a song specifically for an occasion like this, should it arise - or perhaps a more accurate statement is that he has written a song for just about every occasion that might arise, and this one is most fitting for the one at hand. But fitting it is, and he settles his lute in his lap with a caress of its body and light pluck of its strings. And then he sings to Geralt, a song that's simple and pleasant and lighthearted, but with significant weight behind it. It's a song of comfort, of security, of safety; a song about how easy it can be to be with someone you love. How a person can be a home. Dandelion pauses once he finishes, letting the final notes ring out until they fade away - the acoustics in this courtyard are excellent. Then he smiles at Geralt and says, "And there you are, my dear witcher, as simple as that. Another song?" 

Geralt nods. "Sure. Why not." 

"Perhaps this will please you." Dandelion plucks the beginning note on his lute to get the key. If pressed, he would admit to using _please_ very loosely, and slightly manipulatively - but deception in the name of a greater truth is the realm of an artist. This song is a dramatic tone shift from Dandelion's previous offering, as it is intended to be. This one is a mournful ballad, one full of regret and heartache and sorrow. It's the last reflections of someone on their deathbed, someone who had wasted time remaining bound to the wrong person until they both withered, expressing in their final moments that they wished they had sought someone they truly loved. The tune is like a knife twisting into a heart, as it is meant to be; no one can say pain cannot be melodious. When Dandelion finishes, he looks out over the pond, as if deep in thought. "Tragic tale, is it not? But a beautiful song nonetheless." 

There's something wistful on Geralt's face when he says, "Yeah. Nice song." 

"Geralt, may I ask you a question?" Dandelion asks, setting his lute aside. He turns so he's facing the witcher directly, meeting stunning gold eyes with his own - slow, throbbing heartbeat! - and moves his hand to rest on Geralt's. "Promise you will answer honestly." 

Geralt nods, holding Dandelion's gaze. "Sure." 

"Do they bother you, the rumors?" Dandelion asks, tilting his head to show his genuine interest in the answer - since he _is_ genuinely interested, as, while the rumors work to his benefit, he would hate for Geralt to feel so uncomfortable with them that he would wish them to cease. "And do you mind what they imply about my attraction for you, or feelings for you?" 

Geralt thinks, then shrugs. "No. Rumors are pretty funny. The whole thing with the attraction is kinda flattering, actually." 

"What if the rumors were true?" Dandelion continues. "About my feelings and attraction?" 

"Oh." Geralt blinks, looking the closest to surprised Dandelion's ever seen him, as if he hadn't really thought about it. And how sad it is that Geralt has not even considered it could be a possibility. "Uh. I... huh. Guess I'd be flattered too. Wouldn't bother me if you felt that way, as long as we were both on the same page about our relationship." 

"Marvelous." Dandelion beams. The same page, Geralt said, and yes, it seems they are finally on the same page - a page that has just flipped. He's happy to keep turning those pages at Geralt's pace, as long as Geralt continues to move with him. And, oh, what joy it is. What splendor. What happiness he feels, hearing Geralt say those two words - _our relationship_. "Yes, I enjoy the page we're on in _our relationship_. And, I assume, if you ceased to enjoy our time together or you became bothered by the rumors, you would tell me. So if we are good company for each other, and you would like to continue to horrify some nobles..." 

"Yeah. Let's horrify some nobles." Geralt's lips twitch up at the corners again. "Tomorrow, though. Gotta meet with Ciri soon, talk about some Empire stuff. All the shit I'm forced to do now that Ciri will have to do once I retire. Unless she decides to marry somebody and shove it all off on them." 

_Retire_ , Geralt calls it - _run off into the sunset with a bard_ , Dandelion calls it. Well, they're at least on the same page when it comes to Geralt's plans to leave the life of an Emperor Consort behind, even if they would perhaps put different words on that page. But, no matter. Tomorrow is good enough for Dandelion. He knows when he's not invited to something - or, rather, isn't invited and can't invite himself - but is certain the Imperial Encumbrance will try to make that clear to him regardless. Better to leave before Cauldron tosses him out, and retain some sense of dignity. Loathe as Dandelion is to separate from Geralt, he'd rather separate than be separated. 

"One more song before we part?" Dandelion asks, and Geralt's little smile is all the answer he needs. He picks up his lute again. This song is short and sweet, with no words at all, merely a melody that came into Dandelion's mind in a spark of inspiration that he felt conveyed its sentiments without the need to verbally express them. When Dandelion finishes, he squeezes Geralt's shoulder as he gets up. "Until tomorrow, my dear Geralt. When we shall once again horrify nobles and make our own fate." 

Dandelion lets himself out of the Imperial Courtyard and makes his way back through the gardens, barely restraining himself from taking his lute in his arms again and playing a song of triumph and glee. Of jubilation and delight. _Our relationship_ , Geralt said, and, yes, finally he has come to understand what Dandelion has known all along - their relationship is something tangible and beautiful, something concrete and magnificent, something precious and lasting, something enduring. Something that can withstand whatever their lives throw at it, both within the palace walls and outside them. _Our relationship_. Dandelion looks forward to hearing Geralt say those words again and again in the decades to come. 

Geralt's feeding Emhyr carp Emreis a second lunch, because he can't say no to those boggling eyes, when Caldwyn brings Ciri into the courtyard. Geralt looks up and grins, snapping the box shut and putting it away before wiping the fish food dust off his hands on his trousers and getting up. He smiles at Ciri. "Hey, Empress, how was the statecraft lesson? Ready to negotiate some treaties?" 

"No, definitely not." Ciri looks tired. "Luckily, I'm not Empress yet." 

"Right, that's still me." Geralt smirks at Caldwyn, who flushes a deep red. Caldwyn was trained his whole life to serve as chamberlain to Emhyr's future spouse, most of his training based on the assumption that Emhyr would have a political marriage to a noblewoman who would become Empress, but then Emhyr had to go and screw the whole thing up by unexpectedly sticking him with a male witcher. Geralt got a whole staff shoved on him right after Emhyr started courting him, finding himself surrounded by attendants and squires and tailors and personal aides with no warning, so he and Caldwyn were equally confused to see each other. Towards the beginning of their time together, Caldwyn once accidentally called Geralt _the Empress_. He was mortified and couldn't look Geralt in the eye for days, but Geralt thought it was hilarious. "Okay, ready to talk about some boring Head of State Shit?" 

Ciri sighs. "If we must. I'd rather discuss that book about extinct creatures you found in the library." 

"Yeah. You and me both. But we had to go and get ourselves stuck with your Papa." Geralt rolls his eyes. He turns to Caldwyn, who's still hiding behind his loose dark orange curls while recovering from his embarrassment. Poor guy's fun to mess with, but he's one of Geralt's favorite people. "See you in a couple hours, Caldwyn. Got some changes to make to that Gwent deck we're working on. Nobody'll show you the flaws in a strategy like Ciri." 

Geralt wraps an arm around Ciri and squeezes her shoulders in a little hug before they head off down the path to the other side of the courtyard, taking it at a leisurely pace. The missing part of Geralt's leg has finally finished growing back and his ankle's healed, but there's nothing wrong with a slow walk. The mid-afternoon sun's a little piercing, and Geralt thinks maybe if he talks to the groundskeeper tonight then he'll be able to get him some trees to plant tomorrow. Geralt could use a day of digging around in the dirt. "Okay, Ciri. Non-Emperor-y things I get forced to do - what would you hate hearing about the least?" 

"I'm equally sick of everything. I know we're here to discuss matters, but I've had enough lectures for the day." Ciri gives Geralt a look that's a little wry but mostly weary, and he breaks. He hates that shit too, and he can't make himself force his daughter to think about it when she's already working her ass off and barely managed to escape her advisors. "Let's talk about something else. Like how you were hanging out with Dandelion again. Right before our meeting, no less. Didn't I tell you everyone was gossiping about the two of you?" 

"Yeah, you did. Don't care much what a bunch of gossips say, though." Geralt leans down to pick a handful of verbena and sticks it in his pocket, because he needs to brew some Tawny Owl - he still likes to gather his ingredients himself, and he had these trousers specially made with big herb-storage pockets. "They'd say shit if I did anything but sit around drinking tea with noblemen while waiting for you and Emhyr to come home. Rather hang out with somebody who's honest and funny, whatever the doublet-and-ball-gown crowd says about it." He picks a couple more verbena flowers for good measure. "The songs - doesn't feel bad to be flattered." 

"So you _do_ now see they're flowery." Ciri crosses her arms as she watches Geralt stain the inside of his white linen trousers with green plant juice. "I know Papa isn't feeding you chocolate with a rose between his teeth, but are you really missing romance in your life that much?" 

"C'mon, Ciri. We talked about this. Don't worry about me. I'm fine." Geralt bends down to grab some celandine for Swallow as they pass that patch, and notes it looks like it needs some fertilizing. He planned out the potion ingredient patches leading to Emhyr carp Emreis's pond, and cares for them himself; throughout the century he spent on the Path, he always wanted his own garden. "Just bored." 

"It was fine when the bard was just causing a stir. But it's now gone far past a stir," Ciri says, rubbing her hand over the right side of her forehead. "Maybe too far past." 

"Kinda funny, isn't it?" Geralt smirks. "Seeing everybody getting all up in arms about a bard hitting on me? Knew Nilfgaardian high society types will get scandalized about anything, but it's funny to see them get this riled up about something this ridiculous." 

"When I was little," Ciri says, "you always told me not to poke the hornet's nest in the back corner of the stables at Kaer Morhen. You said hornets have no sense of humor, are easily bothered, don't take kindly to being provoked, and I would just be inviting trouble. Remember that?" 

"I get where you're going with this, and it's a good metaphor," Geralt says, quickly snapping up some wolfsbane as they stroll by. "Only thing is, those courtiers can buzz all they want but they can't sting me." 

"Papa can," Ciri replies.

It occurs to Geralt then that maybe he should wonder if Emhyr's heard about the bard thing. Emhyr's got a lot going on, and he's been away a lot, so Geralt figured petty court chatter about some man singing songs wouldn't reach him. Emhyr's not surrounded by bored nobles and socialites, he's surrounded by the massive entourage he has to drag with him on trips to keep his Empire running from wherever he ends up. His advisors and assistants and attendants and scribes and intelligence specialists and military strategists and whoever the hell else works for him aren't going to be chatting with him about a dandy with a lute in the middle of intelligence briefings or strategy meetings. But Emhyr does have ears everywhere, and those ears would've definitely picked up on this level of buzz, since they can pick up on even the smallest whisper. The question is whether any of those ears thought the information would be worth getting into Emhyr's. They could have. So maybe Emhyr _has_ heard about the whole Dandelion situation, or will hear about it soon. Huh. 

"Ciri, I'm not gonna tell you what your Papa does to me when he gets jealous, just that I like it," Geralt says. 

"Geralt!" Ciri looks at him with an appalled expression. "Thank you for stopping there, I don't need details." 

"Might get me some attention from him," Geralt grumbles, as he leans down to pick some white myrtle flowers. "Or get him to do anything like that to me at all." 

Ciri sighs again. "I don't particularly want to discuss this with you, but has Papa not been intimate with you lately?" 

"Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon," Geralt says reproachfully, because no, Emhyr hasn't.

"You brought it up!" Ciri exclaims. 

Fair. Geralt did. Because Emhyr hasn't, at all. And it's not like Emhyr's forgetting Geralt's right there and willing, channelling pent up sexual energy into his work until he doesn't remember there's somewhere else to direct it, because Geralt brings sex up regularly. And Emhyr actively turns him down. He just declined Geralt's offer of reunion sex last night, and Geralt's offer of goodbye sex the night before he left for his trip. And every offer before that, for quite a while, along with brushing off or swatting away any attempts to turn him on at various times during the day. Geralt can't remember how long it's been since Emhyr so much as put his hands in Geralt's trousers, or let Geralt get his mouth on him. Geralt's _thought_ about being intimate with Emhyr a lot, usually while getting well-acquainted with his hands and toys, but that's the closest he's gotten in a long time. 

Geralt doesn't think his husband owes him sex, because that's a fucked up mentality. And Emhyr doesn't just shut the suggestions down; he gives Geralt a reason every time so Geralt will know he's not uninterested in the idea and not unattracted to him, but it's not the right time or he's not in the right mood. Which is fair. Emhyr's always getting back from trips late and leaving early, coming back to their bedroom from various meetings and work in the Palace hours after bedtime and leaving it at the crack of dawn, trying to grab every minute of sleep he can get. Tired people make bad decisions, and Emhyr can't afford to make errors in judgement or yawn at foreign dignitaries or endanger all of Nilfgaard through some political strategy mistake. Emhyr's not getting time to eat without disruption, let alone sneak off to ravish his husband. Emhyr's not feeling passionate or naughty or sexy, he's feeling stressed and drained and exhausted. Geralt gets that what Emhyr needs most every night is to rest and be held, so that's what he wants to give his husband more than anything. What Geralt needs most when he's with Emhyr is to rest and be held too. 

The thing is, though, Emhyr used to say stuff like _I'll have you when I return_ or _don't expect any respite tomorrow night_ or _when these damned meetings conclude I'll take you as mine_. They both knew those weren't promises of actual times, it'd happen whenever it happened, but it was about the intent. The expression that, at some point in the future, Emhyr wanted to do everything he said and more. Emhyr doesn't say stuff like that anymore. And that's fine. He doesn't owe Geralt explanations or promises he can't keep. But Geralt's gonna be honest - he really wants to get _ploughed_. So if something happened to provoke Emhyr to the point where he wanted to have his way with Geralt immediately, then. Well. Saying he likes what Emhyr does to him when he's feeling possessive is one hell of an understatement. A little provocation wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. 

"I wasn't worried about you making Papa jealous," Ciri says, and Geralt snaps out of it. He gets distracted when he's thinking about his husband, especially when the thoughts are explicit. But Ciri sounds irked. "I was worried about him getting annoyed that you're causing trouble. You know he doesn't like it when you stir up the court for fun." 

"Ciri, you okay?" Geralt asks. He stops under one of the few trees near the edge of the garden to give them both some shade, and turns to his daughter. He frowns as he looks closer at her, seeing the dark circles under her eyes and the little lines on her forehead. "You used to think it was hilarious when I pissed off people in the court, and even funnier when the Emperor married me and they couldn't do shit about it. All this Empress stuff is getting pretty serious for you, huh? Well... more serious than it already was. Know it was really serious to start with." 

"I did expect it would get more difficult with time. My lessons are becoming more practical than theoretical, and my trips are becoming more involved than simple tours. It's making this all feel much more real. Everyone reminds me the future is growing closer, as if I don't already _know_ , and -" Ciri cuts off as her voice gets louder and more emotional, and she looks away. "I'm sorry, Geralt. I'm not being any fun. I do find you causing trouble funny, but..." 

"Don't be sorry. You never need to be sorry," Geralt says gently, and wipes the plant juice off on his trousers before he puts a hand on Ciri's shoulder. "Can't imagine what you're going through, and can't pretend I understand. You don't have to be fun, 'specially not now. This is gonna be your court soon, and if you don't want your old dad turning the place upside down, I'll stop. Won't do anything that'll make your life harder." 

"I don't like being so serious all the time," Ciri admits, and Geralt subtly nudges away a leaf that's drifted down onto her shoulder. "I want to find things funny - because I do find this funny - and not worry about whatever order has to be kept. I want to laugh at the ridiculous court drama without feeling like I'm somehow involved. And I _do_ want to be Empress, but... I miss not being serious. Not all the time." 

"C'mere." Geralt pulls Ciri into a hug, holding his daughter close and letting her bury her face in his shoulder. "I'll never really understand, 'cause I'm just a half-assed Emperor Consort, but I'll try. You're gonna be a great Empress, and I'm gonna help you. You want to be serious, I'll be serious with you. You want to have fun, we'll have fun. Up to you." 

Ciri sniffles quietly, and Geralt suddenly feels the weight of the world on his shoulders just knowing it's on his little girl's. He holds her closer, letting her sniffle a few times, until she lets out a shaky breath and pulls back. Her eyes are ringed with red. "I think, for today, I want to have fun. And maybe get in a _bit_ of trouble."

"We could go poke a hornet's nest," Geralt says, and Ciri lets out a small and shaky laugh, wiping the smudges of smeared makeup away from her puffy eyes.

"Or perhaps we could find amusement in everyone getting upset about this bard scandal," Ciri suggests. "I suppose it's fairly harmless, all things considered. It's keeping people busy. There hasn't been a lot of infighting or intrigue lately, and people aren't giving each other disdainful looks in the hallways when they're watching a man in pink and teal clothes follow you around with a lute singing love poetry so sappy it's a wonder you don't get stuck in it." 

"If your Papa gets mad, I'm gonna use that reasoning." And if Geralt gets to use it, he's going to feel pretty smug. 

"One thing... don't poke the hornet's nest in the bush beside the middle gate on the far side of the courtyard. Yes, there is one there, and I'm telling you about because I know you'll find it regardless and remember this conversation and think it would be funny to poke it so you can tell me you did." Ciri shakes her head, smiling fondly. "Only you, Geralt, would force me to tell the Emperor Consort of Nilfgaard not to poke a literal hornet's nest." 

Geralt smirks, huffing in amusement. He's definitely the worst Emperor's spouse this Empire has ever seen. It's a point of personal pride. "Okay, fuck all the Empire stuff. Let's go riding. You want to get in trouble, we'll sneak off the grounds and make the Impera Brigade freak out when they figure out we're missing and have to try to track down two witchers. Then we'll blame it all on me and nobody'll be allowed to say shit but Emhyr. Once we let them catch us and herd us back, we'll play Gwent. Good plan?" 

"Perfect plan." Ciri puts her hand in Geralt's and he squeezes it, cherishing having his daughter here and being able to be here for her too.

"One thing for you, though," Geralt says. "Pick a different horse. One from last time... I don't trust it."

Ciri laughs. "Oh? You don't _trust_ the _horse_?" 

"I have instincts." 

Ciri leads Geralt towards the courtyard gates, going slowly so he can gather some honeysuckle on their way. They enjoy the gentle breeze and softening rays of sun, imagining how the weather will be even nicer when they're out riding in it. And if Geralt notices Ciri makes a little detour to avoid going by the gate next to the hornet's nest, he doesn't say anything. 

Emhyr is weary. Emhyr is vexed. Emhyr is in his study preparing for a meeting with foreign dignitaries. These things are directly connected. 

Mererid is standing by Emhyr's desk in his usual spot, awaiting any questions or comments or orders the Emperor might have for him. Emhyr is tempted to ask Mererid to bring him another cup of The Strong Tea, and likely would were the meeting not in a half hour - he should perhaps examine how often he has been asking Mererid to bring him Strong Tea as of late, but that is not of importance at the present moment. What _is_ of importance, regrettably, is the final stack of papers on the right hand side of his desk. He spent the morning consumed with various urgent matters and is only just now getting to a brief regarding last minute details of the meeting, a document he sincerely hopes will be possible to sufficiently peruse in a half hour. Emhyr has slightly less than that. He hopes this unfortunate deficiency in time will not cost him. 

Emhyr gestures for Mererid to slide the stack of papers closer, and once they reach the finally cleared space in front of him, he rifles through them to get a sense of how much time he might allocate to each page. However, seven pages in, he finds something that does not seem to be connected to the brief, at least not in any way he can imagine - it is a somewhat crumpled paper with notes scrawled in Geralt's handwriting and a few sketches. Emhyr is not certain how it got mixed in with his intelligence brief; he recalls hastily grabbing this stack of papers from his bedside table this morning, as he had intended to read them the night before but faded out from exhaustion less than a page in, yet he cannot determine why Geralt's scribblings would have found their way into it. But Geralt has a habit of doing this: entangling himself in Emhyr's life in so many places and so many ways that Emhyr cannot figure out how he managed to do it. 

It takes a moment - time Emhyr does not have, but time he will make - to look over Geralt's paper. It's disjointed: the top left side bears an experimental potion recipe annotated with comments and question marks, the bottom left side bears notes on an archaic manuscript he had recently read, and the right side is filled with sketches of monsters. The creatures are surprisingly sweet looking - dare he say _cute_ \- to have been drawn by someone who's been menaced by them for a century and could certainly draw them fearsomely if he wishes. But Geralt tends to draw animals like this, even monsters: through the kindest lens possible. Looking at the inner workings of Geralt's mind makes Emhyr miss his husband terribly, the dull ache of the indefinable emptiness he always feels in the background of his daily life suddenly jolting to the forefront and becoming sharp and strong. Emhyr misses hearing these workings himself, sitting with Geralt and listening to him theorize about potions and talk about books and ramble about monsters rather than unintentionally stumbling upon what his husband's mind has been doing when Emhyr was not here to find out firsthand. 

Emhyr wishes to go to Geralt and pull him to his chest and hold him, to kiss Geralt on the forehead and tell him that his drawing of a basilisk did not look accurate so Geralt will tell him that is because it was a cockatrice and point out the differences - Geralt is unaware that Emhyr has paid close attention to his other sketches of the two creatures and already learned those differences from them, and Emhyr intends to keep his husband unaware of it for this exact purpose. Emhyr wishes to go to Cirilla and sit with her and tell her that the report he received from her advisors this morning made him quite proud of her and she is to be congratulated on her improvement in the field of economic analysis. He has been told that Geralt and Cirilla have gone to spend time together in the garden, and knowing they are in the same place when they so rarely are only makes those wishes stronger. But a half hour would be barely enough time to reach the garden and return from it, let alone spend any kind of time with his husband and daughter there. Emhyr allows himself a brief flight of fancy in which he imagines postponing this meeting for a few hours, but unfortunately, the dignitaries are too important and have traveled too far to be left waiting in their chambers twiddling their thumbs. If only Emhyr were allowed to act according to his _own_ priority order of the importance of the people in question. 

"Mererid," Emhyr says, and hands the page of notes and drawings to his chamberlain. "Have my best scribe make an exact copy of this page, using the same ink. It must be indistinguishable from the original. Once it is completed, return the original to me, and give the copy to Caldwyn to place on the desk in Geralt's study. Positioned naturally, as if it had been set down there and never moved." 

"With pleasure, Your Majesty," Mererid says, and wisely does not make further comments on Emhyr's unusually sentimental request.

"One more thing," Emhyr says. This isn't the right time to probe the issue he plans to - he is well aware it's not, with the brief on his desk carrying the same weight and urgency as an hourglass - but Emhyr is growing tired of only doing things it is _the right time_ for. And so he says, "I have heard talk that the bard Dandelion has continued his songwriting and his interest in my husband, and has escalated the commotion he is wreaking in my court." 

It only takes that one sentence - Emhyr knew it would - and Mererid's tongue is fully loosened. 

"Your Majesty is correct. Bard in Residence Dandelion has not only continued to write and perform his songs during private performances for His Majesty the Emperor Consort and appearances at designated events, he has now begun to perform them in the Palace hallways. By the side of His Majesty, no less. The bard has attached himself to His Majesty's retinue, following His Majesty around the Palace with the regularity of an attendant, but far greater noise production than one. Furthermore, it is my impression that Dandelion has behaved dismissively and discourteously towards Caldwyn, behavior which the bard has abhorrently concealed from His Majesty to avoid incurring His Majesty's displeasure. Dandelion has created regular disturbances inside the Palace, commandeered court events for showcases of his obsession, fueled the flames of gossip and speculation, disrespected those who compete for His Majesty's attention, been flagrant in his pursuit of Your Majesty's husband the Emperor Consort, and inflicted his music upon all unfortunate enough to cross his cacophonic path." Mererid pauses in his tirade of ire, gathering himself and growing slightly more reticent before adding, "And there has been the rare, but occasional, suggestion around the court that His Majesty the Emperor Consort may, to some degree, reciprocate the interest." 

As Mererid recounts the situation, Emhyr finds his own ire growing along with his chamberlain's. Mererid, though not one to conceal his disdain or displeasure for those who justifiably earn it, usually maintains his composure far more than this when speaking to the Emperor. That Mererid has become so incensed by the havoc Dandelion has wrought that he would allow his temperament to slip to such a degree in conversation with Emhyr tells him all he needs to know about the severity of the pandemonium. Emhyr cannot imagine the scale of wasted attention and effort put toward this unacceptable distraction. The sheer boldness of the bard and the depths of his disrespect for everyone and everything within the Imperial Court - Emhyr himself included - is as staggering as it is appalling. And it should be clear, with no room for doubt or question, that Emhyr is the primary recipient of Geralt's affections and to speak out loud the suggestion that anyone else might also receive them is a grievous offense. 

"I see," Emhyr replies, and requires only those two words to make it clear how he feels about all he has just heard. 

"Your Majesty, please be assured that I did attempt to reprimand Dandelion. On multiple occasions," Mererid says, the ire returning to his tone. "It would seem the bard has as little regard for reminders of protocol and common decency as he does for protocol and common decency in the first place." 

"The bard is..." Emhyr presses his lips into a thin line and clenches his teeth behind them until he thinks of the right word. "Obstreperous." The muscles in his jaw tighten further, until his teeth grind. "He has moved from an irritation to a nuisance." 

"One might suggest unforgivably so," Mererid says.

"Yes," Emhyr decides, and his tense fingers crumple the top sheet of the brief that has found its way into his hand. "Unforgivably so." 

There are options. 

Emhyr could have Dandelion meet a terrible fate. Not outright execute him, as the stir caused would be even worse than at present, but incite the same outcome. However, this is likely to backfire; should the bard have a dreadful accident or make a mysterious disappearance in Nilfgaard after publicly and blatantly attempting to woo the Emperor Consort, it would be obvious the vengeful Emperor had him assassinated. Dandelion is a very popular bard with many fans and bard friends, and there would be accusations and songs all across the Continent regarding the cruelty of Emperor Emhyr var Emreis the Bard-Murderer. However, Emhyr is no stranger to an unsavory reputation and does not care whether such an action would come off as brutal; it would certainly deter anyone from attempting to woo his husband again. No, the real danger in having Dandelion disposed of is twofold: first, that it could come off as a display of weakness rather than strength, making Emhyr appear so threatened by the bard that he had him killed as if he were real competition. But more importantly, Geralt would be furious. Given Geralt's morals, he would never forgive Emhyr for the cold-blooded murder of an unbearable but harmless bard. The toll it would take on their relationship, already often strained, would be immense. And perhaps Emhyr is simply going soft through the influence of Geralt and Cirilla, as a decade ago he wouldn't have blinked while giving the order to have the bard's empty head separated from his garish body, but it now seems excessive and potentially unjustifiable to end the bard's life over this. 

Emhyr could stage a kidnapping to take Dandelion far outside the bounds of the Nilfgaardian Empire, but that could backfire spectacularly as well - doubtless Geralt would insist on tracking him and riding to the rescue himself, making Geralt the heroic knight in shining armor. This would fuel the bard's obsession if Geralt were to find him, and stoke unsavory rumors even if he did not. This plan would put them in danger of making the affection seem reciprocated, and so it must be discarded immediately. 

Emhyr could simply have Dandelion tossed out of his court early. This would be the simplest and most inoffensive solution. However, if Geralt truly appreciates Dandelion's presence, it would doubtless displease him to have the bard flung from the Palace grounds. If Geralt seemed bothered by the attention of the bard, or by the rumors, Emhyr would have him removed instantly; however, Geralt is seeking out his company and enjoying it despite the fracas, so neither his patience nor honor requires defending. If Geralt desired Dandelion's removal, he would remove Dandelion himself, and so this plan would be acting against Geralt's wishes. And Emhyr can only imagine the narrative a banished bard could weave: fated lovers torn apart by a jealous husband spitting in the face of destiny. Dandelion would sing his tale of woe in taverns everywhere, rewriting history to make Geralt seem like an interested participant and their chance to be together anything but a figment of his imagination. No, not only would this displease Geralt, it would make Dandelion a tragic and sympathetic figure. A martyr for love. So this is not ideal either. 

Luckily, Emhyr has a far more insidious plan than murder, kidnapping, or exile. 

Reputation is everything to a bard. The death of a bard's reputation is worse than the death of the bard themselves. Dandelion's reputation is that of an unrivaled seducer of nobility, an adept poacher of spouses, a skilled lover, an irresistible charmer, and a debonair court fixture. It is also one of popular ballads, comprised of both overwrought poetry and tales of his own exploits. There would be no worse showing for a supposedly irresistible charmer than to become famous for pathetically and senselessly chasing after someone who never gave him a second glance. There would be no more public a disaster for a poacher of spouses than to try and fail to take an Emperor's. And there would be no more devastating a blow for a seducer of nobility than to catastrophically fail at the seduction of the Emperor Consort of Nilfgaard. And thus the poetry could be overshadowed, and the exploits discredited. The bard himself humiliated, his delusion exposed for all to see. A witless lovesick fool laid bare. A bard with no clothes. The true beauty of this plan is that Dandelion will execute it mostly on his own. With the right maneuvers and the proper framing, Dandelion can do far worse to himself than Emhyr ever could. 

And so, Emhyr will subject the bard to a fate worse than death: the annihilation of his persona. 

"Thank you for your insight, Mererid," Emhyr says.

"Of course, Your Majesty," Mererid replies. 

"This is quite a regrettable situation," Emhyr says.

"It certainly is, Your Majesty," Mererid replies. 

Emhyr looks at Mererid. Mererid looks at Emhyr. And then Emhyr sets the machinations of his subterfuge into motion. 

"It is quite a shame," Emhyr says casually, "that the vapid gossips of this court and associated noble circles are too dim to have realized that the bard related nonsense distracting them from their roles and duties is frivolous, and any potential reports of the Emperor Consort reciprocating the jester's interest are baseless. In fact, it is embarrassing for them to believe or give weight to such farfetched tales, and even more embarrassing for them to spread them. Shallow, unbefitting of intellectuals, and gauche, unbefitting of those of social standing. It reflects terribly on them that they are not viewing Dandelion as a mere laughingstock, a subject for disdain and mockery. Or that they would even consider the idea that His Majesty the Emperor Consort should stoop so low as to entertain the bard's deluded fantasies. It could, in fact, damage their reputations were they not to begin rectifying their folly by expressing these sentiments in wide company. It seems like some external force may need to make them aware of this, as they clearly have not reached the conclusion on their own. Wouldn't you agree, Mererid?" 

"Yes, Your Majesty, I agree," Mererid says. His face and tone have returned to their more impassive state, but Emhyr knows his chamberlain well enough to sense his barely restrained glee at the opportunity for pettiness and disparagement that has been placed into his hands. There is no greater gift one can give Mererid than the chance to eviscerate someone well-deserving.

"Not only that, but how much do we know about Dandelion?" Emhyr continues. "Are we certain he has not been banished from countless courts across the North and South for being a lecherous loon and an unsatisfying lover? Are we certain he has not been derided in songs by other bards for his idiocy and foolhardiness and inability to orally please? Are we certain he has not once run through the streets of Beauclair in naught but his underclothes and a drunken flush, proclaiming himself to be the Master of Self-Fornication? Neither can we confirm at this time that he was not kicked in the balls by an ox as a child. So should someone suggest any of these things, or perhaps locate some lyrics to disparaging songs written by other bards, it would not be amiss." 

"It certainly would not, Your Majesty." Mererid sounds the closest he'll ever get to delighted, and his dark eyes gleam ominously. "In fact, it would seem quite proper to raise these concerns and procure these documents." 

"Quite." Emhyr shuffles the papers on his desk, tapping their edges on the wood surface to even them out. "If that is all, I shall return to thinking about people who are worth any of my attention or consideration. This has been enough discussion of senseless and powerless individuals who are of no consequence in my court. Remain here while I complete my review of the brief, and then bring the dignitaries to wherever you have determined this meeting will be held." 

"Yes, Your Majesty." Mererid nods solemnly, but Emhyr can still sense the euphoria barely contained within the empty space within his chest where one might expect to find a heart. Emhyr predicts that within a half hour of the conclusion of Mererid's meeting-related duties, the Palace will be ablaze with the ideas Emhyr has presented for his consideration. One of the most valuable assets a ruler can possess is a fidus achates, and Emhyr has chosen his right hand man wisely in Mererid. With his help, Emhyr will have the bard problem solved without so much as lifting a finger.

Emhyr's plan is a simple but devastating solution, efficient and effective, making optimal use of resources: a few words to one man alone can be enough to bring a palace to its knees. 

Satisfied with his subterfuge, Emhyr returns his attention to the meeting brief. 

Geralt would never harbor deep interest in Dandelion, so Emhyr remains unconcerned on that front. Knowing his husband, Geralt is either oblivious to or amused by both the rumors and the bard's affections. If Geralt had any genuine attraction to Dandelion, he would have informed Emhyr of it without shame; this would be followed by a suggestion that Emhyr should do whatever Geralt had been fantasizing about the bard doing, much better than the bard would, and wipe said bard out of his mind. That has been their strategy before, tested by sparks of attraction Geralt has had in the past, and it has always worked for them. Emhyr has never had difficulty satisfying Geralt, and so Geralt has never reached the point of asking Emhyr to permit him to go for a quick romp in another's bed. Geralt knows as well as Emhyr that, while meaningless sex would pose no danger to the commitment of their relationship, significant political and social fallout could occur should it come to light that the Emperor's husband was seeking pleasure in the beds of others. And so they have always used their strategy. 

If anything, Emhyr suspects Geralt has exaggerated his brief interest in the occasional attractive person, because it allows him to goad Emhyr into showing his possessive side. Geralt is always smug when he pushes Emhyr into roughly and aggressively ploughing the wandering thoughts out of his head, marking him with vibrant lovebites all over his neck and chest to remind Geralt and anyone who might get close enough to peek under the high collar he'll have to wear that he is wedded to Emhyr, and Emhyr alone. And Geralt looks far too proud of himself when he gets Emhyr to leave additional marks in far more private locations and call him _mine_. Emhyr's husband is deliciously masochistic, and he loves to feel claimed; this is a point of great compatibility for them. Perhaps it would not be a bad idea to implement their strategy. It has been a while since Emhyr made Geralt scream himself hoarse. 

But not yet. Not quite yet. Emhyr saves this tactic for when it is truly warranted, to preserve its effectiveness. So he will not use it _quite_ yet, not until Geralt makes any mention of the bard, but - should Geralt bring his name up in Emhyr's presence even once, Emhyr may be forced to treat it as an expression of interest and react accordingly. 

"My deepest apologies for interrupting Your Majesty," Mererid says. Emhyr looks up sharply, realizing Mererid is calling to his attention that he has not, in fact, glanced at the papers in his hands. "Your Majesty's meeting is nearly nigh." 

"Yes, Mererid. Thank you," Emhyr says, and pushes all indecent thoughts of Geralt aside. It is time for his attention to return to matters of state. 

Emhyr shuffles the papers again, and yet another that should not be there falls out - once more, a collection of Geralt's scribbles and scrawls. This paper contains drawings of familiar Gwent cards - or so they seem to be, until further inspection. It seems Geralt has taken it upon himself to redesign the Emhyr var Emreis cards from the Nilfgaard deck. Emhyr furrows his brow as he looks them over. The titles are lewd. The jokes are crude. The drawings are obscene. Emhyr scowls. _These_ , he will not have copied. Perhaps he should have brought Geralt along to Vicovaro, as he was clearly too bored. But once Emhyr is done perusing the nude illustrations and filthy captions for _Emperor of Dick-hard, Fornicator of the North, His Penile Majesty,_ and _The Pantless_ , he sees the fifth one: _The White Wolf's Flame_. And Geralt cannot be accused of being a figure artist, not by any means - as beautiful as his drawings of plants and animals are, he is terrible at drawing humans - but this drawing is, perhaps, not so bad. True, it does feature Emhyr in significantly less clothing than his usual amount. But the Great Sun necklace around his neck has been replaced with a simple witcher's wolf medallion, and the wine glass in his hand has written on it, _Emperor Wolf: Corvo Bianco Signature_. The caption has been replaced to _"A witcher is but one of many fools at this ruler's disposal"_. 

For a brief moment, the Great Sun necklace around Emhyr's neck feels very heavy indeed, and he wonders what it might feel like to trade it for the wolf medallion.

"Perish this all," Emhyr mumbles under his breath, shoving the Gwent card drawings onto a shelf under his desk to avoid the humiliating discovery of them by anyone but their subject. He shuffles through the papers again to ensure he has not missed any more of Geralt's notes or artwork. When he finds none, he pauses to wonder how else Geralt will manage to distract him from his work without even being present. "Mererid?" 

Mererid is looking pointedly away from the desk, and Emhyr knows that means he saw the Gwent illustrations. "Yes, Your Majesty?" 

Emhyr finally fixes his eyes on the top page of the brief, skimming the first line. "Inform Caldwyn that the next time I am away, Geralt is to be amused with a trip to the court artist's studio for figure drawing lessons." 

Time will tell whether Geralt will also be amused by Dandelion, and for what reason. Time will also tell whether the same is true of the Imperial Court. But Emhyr is confident that, sooner rather than later, time _will_ tell. It will tell indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> canon creates nilfgaardian words from a mix of elder and dutch, and so do i. canon puts a golden carp in the palace gardens, and so do i. 
> 
> thank you to drenched_in_sunlight/albilibertea who helped flesh out caldwyn's character and appearance!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Kaijusizefeels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijusizefeels/pseuds/kaijusizefeels) made [some wonderful game mods ](https://mykaijusizefeels.tumblr.com/post/623380781611597824) of Emhyr and Geralt at Corvo Bianco (and the Emperor's throne room...)

Two days after His Imperial Majesty Emhyr var Emreis's return to the palace, Dandelion begins to notice something strange. Within a few days, Dandelion finds himself in a full-blown _situation_. 

The palace occupants, courtiers, and nobles are talking about Dandelion, staring at him, and discussing him - this is nothing unusual, as Dandelion rightfully commands such attention in ordinary circumstances. No, what is strange is the way they are doing so. Their looks have taken on a demeanor that, if Dandelion didn't know better, he would call scornful. The rumors have taken a turn that, if Dandelion didn't know better, he would call demeaning. The gossip has taken a turn that, if Dandelion didn't know better, he would call dismissive. In short, people are being downright _rude_. Yesterday, a minor noble dared to call Dandelion's outfit an _unforgivable eyesore_ \- he was absolutely flabbergasted, and could do no more than splutter before telling her that her face powder looked like baking flour and making an indignant exit from the soirée. They have even had the gall to talk over his musical performance, making snide remarks about the lyrical content. It is absolutely baffling how quickly this shift happened, but it is not at all baffling that it _did_ happen. Dandelion knows exactly why it did. 

This is far from the first time Dandelion's reputation has been tarnished, so to speak, in a royal court. Usually this occurs only after he has succeeded in bedding at least one person that those in power do not want him to bed. However, Nilfgaard has a habit of taking everything to a higher level than anywhere else. Their rituals are more pompous, their customs are more egotistical, their scholars are more arrogant, their high society is pettier, their nobles are more self-important. So Dandelion knows exactly what has caused the tide of public opinion to turn against him: he is a handsome, charming, talented, famous, well-connected man among people constantly vying for attention status. In short, they are _jealous_. 

Dandelion has dealt many a time with the jealousy of others - in fact, he is certain people are constantly jealous of him. With how attractive and stylish and musically gifted Dandelion is, it would be impossible for them _not_ to be. And that's leaving aside how easily he can lure away their spouses. So he sees all this for what it is: their slander to his person is an attempt to bring him down to their level, their comments on his fashion are to assuage their own feelings of drabness, their criticism of their art stems from their awareness of their own lack of talent, and their repudiation of his relationship with Geralt arises from their bitterness that the Emperor Consort neither knows nor cares that they exist. Insecurity and folly. Sad, really. So despite the fact that Dandelion is spiraling into becoming a persona non grata, he continues along undaunted. 

Tonight Dandelion is standing at the very center of the palace gardens in the last fading rays of sunset, waiting for Geralt. Dandelion hasn't seen Geralt since Emhyr's return, and the separation from his Gift of Fate has begun to weigh too heavily on his soul for him to continue carrying it around, so he declared this a desperate time and thus deserving of a desperate measure - and then he hatched a plan. The objective is a late night meeting. A moonlight tryst. Dandelion had Geralt sent a message requesting a meeting with him in this exact spot when the sun fully disappears, because he fears he's in terrible danger. The sun has finally been consumed by the horizon, and so surrounded by the lovely flowers and trees and bathed in the soft romantic light of the rising moon, Dandelion waits. 

Geralt shows up not a second after the appointed time. 

Geralt looks fearsome. He looks terrifying. He looks ferocious. He looks indescribably sexy. Geralt is wearing sturdy black leather armor covered in metal studs with his signature sun and wolf crest engraved into the front, with matching gloves and boots. His signature dual swords, one steel and one silver, are strapped to his back. There is a bag attached to his sheath strap that clinks ominously, no doubt filled with noxious potions. His long hair is drawn back in a full ponytail secured with a sturdy leather tie rather than his usual half-down style fastened with a gold clip. His wolf medallion hangs heavy and menacing around his neck. He looks ready for a fight, and ready to slay anything that might stand in his way. Dandelion knows this is what the great witcher Geralt of Rivia looked like in his prime, when he was still living out his legend, and it sends a shiver down his spine. He can't believe he's witnessing this incredible moment. 

"What's the danger?" Geralt says. His voice is low and rough, with the edge of a growl, and the look in his usually gentle golden eyes is hardened. He looks ready to go into battle on Dandelion's behalf instantly. Dandelion wants to allow himself the indulgence of a blushing maiden and swoon into Geralt's heavily equipped arms. 

"Geralt, my dear witcher. I appreciate your protection, I truly do. I'm flattered, really, that you would go to such lengths. That you're prepared to undertake armed combat in my defense." Dandelion steps forward, lightly squeezing Geralt's tensed bicep - merely as a gesture of gratitude and soothing, nothing more. "But, my knight in confining armor, I'm afraid the threat doesn't require full protective attire and weapons to defeat. For you see, Emperor Consort Geralt of Rivia, the danger I am facing is much gentler than any monster, but far more cruel - I have found myself in danger of going yet another day without seeing you."

Geralt stares. A moment passes. He continues to stare. "What?" 

"My headstrong heroic witcher, I'm afraid you have - ah, I won't say overreacted, since I am simply head over heels that this is your reaction to my potential peril, and it is a perfect one, fear not," Dandelion reassures him. "Not overreacted, but perhaps... overestimated." 

"Uh huh." Geralt furrows his brow. He crosses his arms, and his bag of potions emits a clacking noise. "Note said you were in _dire and unfathomable peril_. The fuck was I supposed to think, you stubbed your toe?" 

"Come now, my brave and handsome champion, don't be upset." Dandelion takes one of Geralt's gloved hands, carefully uncrossing his arms. The bag clacks again. Holding his hand, clad in resilient leather, nearly makes Dandelion shiver. Geralt like this, dressed for battle and protective enough to dive headfirst into it, is quite frankly one of the most arousing things Dandelion has ever experienced - arousal of the body, the heart, and the mind. It is truly a testament to his lifetime of seducing the dangerously attractive that he has not yet fainted clean away at Geralt's booted feet. "Geralt, I swear to you, I have never received a compliment like this in my entire existence." 

"Hm," Geralt says. Then, "Like what?" 

"Your dedication to me. I'm honored." Dandelion tightens his hold on Geralt's hand, looking deep into those intensely focused gold eyes. "But, Geralt, I never would have asked you to go so far. You didn't have to come out of retirement and go all - witcher-y - for little old me." 

"Retirement?" Geralt raises an eyebrow. "I never retired." 

Dandelion blinks, taken aback. So aback that he drops Geralt's hand. "What?" 

"I never retired," Geralt repeats. "Don't go out as much, have to drag guards with me, but I take care of what needs to be taken care of. Bunch of Nilfgaardian army guys can't take out a noonwraith. Or royal wyverns - just fought a couple of those." 

"Oh, you were - you were serious about the wyverns." Dandelion's mouth drops open.

"You thought I wasn't?" Geralt doesn't have much in the way of facial expressions, but Dandelion has gotten to know him well enough to interpret the little twists and quirks in his face as confusion. "Thought you were joking about the _witcher humor_ thing." 

"And I thought _you_ were joking about the wyverns." 

Dandelion stares. Geralt stares back. 

Geralt raises an eyebrow again. "How'd you think I fucked up my whole arm, shoulder, leg, and ankle? Playing Gwent?" 

"Most of those were covered, and I'm not looking under your clothing! Or, at least, not beneath your underclothes, and at those only with invitation!" Dandelion's voice is indignant. "How dare you imply my lechery would stretch to such lengths, Geralt of Rivia." 

"Wasn't implying anything," Geralt says, raising his hands placatingly, and - alas - Dandelion's attraction to the gloves simply has not waned. 

However, Dandelion soon thinks of something to be even more indignant about. "You didn't correct me! You didn't tell me you were still out doing your - witchering, that you hadn't entirely given up the Path! That your swords spent time on your back, not just your mantel! You let me go around singing ballads full of inaccurate information, based on misguided premises, looking like an absolute and utter fool who doesn't do his research!" 

Geralt snorts in amusement. "Well, you didn't."

Dandelion glares. "Truly, Geralt. How could you not correct me. I thought we were friends." 

"What was I supposed to be correcting, and in what ballads?" Geralt asks. "I'm not much for lyrics - I listen more to the music." 

Dandelion gasps in horror, reeling. "You don't even listen to my odes to you! I sing your praises constantly, Geralt, and you don't hang on my every word!" 

"I listen," Geralt protests. "Just don't always catch everything. Not much of a poetry guy." 

"Unbelievable. _Unbelievable_." Dandelion shakes his head, fuming, then turns away from Geralt and gazes into the distance. But as he looks out at the walls of the palace beyond the trees, some of his impassioned fury and offense fades. He realizes, with a dawning feeling of horror and shame, that Geralt is right. He didn't do his research. He didn't think he _had_ to - he thought he knew all that needed to be known. But perhaps his mind filled in more of that information than he'd thought it had. Perhaps he'd made some very serious assumptions. This whole time, Dandelion had gotten something about Geralt so wrong. Something so core to who he is, to what his life is like. And if _that's_ wrong - if Geralt is still a witcher - then so many of the other things Dandelion has thought he knew about his life are also wrong. And who knows what else could be wrong. What else he thought he knew, but had assumed. 

It's strange, very strange, to have this clear-headed moment. Something almost like self-awareness. A moment of realization.

Realization that Dandelion doesn't know Emperor Consort Geralt of Rivia as much as he thought he did. 

Realization that perhaps Dandelion doesn't know Geralt very much at all. 

Dandelion sits down on the carved marble bench a few feet away, looking up at the moonlight that once felt romantic and now seems mournful. He fancied himself the fate-favored protagonist, simply waiting for the moment that the universe would deliver all his deepest desires to him and his _Gift of Fate_ would sweep him up in his arms and carry him off to a life set in a fairytale. This whole time, he was just what he felt like the first time he and Geralt were separated for days - the man gazing out his window alone at night, silently asking the stars not when, but _if_ , he'd be loved. After a long stretch of silence Geralt comes over to join Dandelion, sitting on the other side of the bench. 

"I'm sorry, Geralt," Dandelion says. "I'm sure most people don't get to know you. I'm sure they don't ask about your story - unless perhaps I'm wrong about that too, and when I'm not around you're surrounded by people interrogating you about every minuscule detail of your day, clamoring to know everything from your favorite breakfast beverage to whether you sleep in socks or barefoot. But perhaps I'm right about that one thing. And if I am, I'm sorry to have been one of the people that didn't ask you about yourself. Someone who looked at you, but didn't observe you. Someone who didn't truly get to know you." 

"Hey, it's okay," Geralt says, somehow both gruffly and gently, and puts a hand on Dandelion's shoulder. "Stuff I did get through my artless witcher head - it was right. Or, right enough. Most of it. Some of it. A bit of it. Uh. Wasn't so far off I had to correct you." 

Dandelion shakes his head. "You must have heard only one or two words, then." 

"More than that," Geralt reassures him. "Was kind of nice, to have someone write about me that way."

"Really?" Dandelion looks up at him hopefully, then suspiciously. "What way?" 

"Poetry. Or, like a guy in poetry," Geralt replies. He drops his hand to his thigh, then looks out into the distance too. "Not a lot of people lining up to write flowery ballads about a witcher, even a witcher who became Emperor Consort. Nothing romantic, for sure. But you wrote your songs. Couple of them called me beautiful. Never been called beautiful before." 

"Oh, Geralt," Dandelion says softly. He rests one of his hands on top of Geralt's. "You are beautiful. No one has ever called you that before?" 

"Spent most of my life being told I was a hideous mutant freak piece of shit. As much of a monster as the things I killed. People chased me out of towns because of how I look, spit on me, said I was the ugliest fuck they'd ever seen, called me shit they wouldn't even call a demon - well, except demon." Geralt's lips quirk in an expression that Dandelion can't parse as bitter, amused, or both. "Got sexual things yelled at me on the street, sometimes. Men in taverns or jail cells told me what they'd do to me. Women I met talked about me like I was a piece of meat, and women I sought in brothels told me I had a nice dick after I gave them coin. Eventually, don't know why, a few sorceresses decided I was worth their time. They gave me more compliments me than anybody'd done in my whole life. Some of it, they got me to believe. I even fell in love and got loved in return, until it went to shit. But nobody ever used the word beautiful." 

"You're so much more than beautiful. You are gorgeous," Dandelion insists, struggling to hold his heart together after it was shattered by Geralt's painful tale, and perhaps everything else said before it. "Your beauty is such that the sun dims in comparison, the moon wanes, the flowers wither, the waters pale, the leaves brown, the stars dull. It is such that I cannot sufficiently describe it in words, though I have spent weeks doing nothing but trying. It is such that in your presence my considerable wit fails me entirely and I behave in nonsensical ways, think foolishly - or do not think at all. I assure you, Geralt, beautiful is the least I could say. Please, I beg you, tell me that you now have people besides me who will tell you how attractive you are, how valued you are, or I will curse this entire cruel and ungrateful world into dust." 

"Emhyr," Geralt says, with a little smile on his lips. "Emhyr tells me that." 

Oh. 

Perhaps Dandelion has made another mistake. 

"His Majesty gives you compliments?" Dandelion asks. "Genuine compliments, as many as you deserve?"

"Enough," Geralt says, then lets out a little huff of a laugh. "Phrases them in a way most people wouldn't find flattering, sounds like he's reading them off a page, but that's how I know they're real." 

Dandelion nods, gathering his courage to ask what he's terrified to know: "Does His Majesty treat you well? Give you all the love and care you should have?" 

"The care - he tries. Can't always be around, since he's got an empire to run and there's a lot happening. Not easy to be an emperor. But he does try." Geralt pauses for a moment, then looks at Dandelion with that little smile again. "The love - yeah. He put a ring on the finger of this old scarred up mutant freak witcher, married me in front of a whole empire, kept me around for five years, and hasn't kicked me out of bed."

"His Majesty hasn't kicked you out?" Dandelion asks. "But, you have your own chambers. Doesn't His Majesty make you sleep in a separate bed? Live in separate apartments?" 

"No, course not. I get my own place because he doesn't want our marital chambers turned into a witcher headquarters. Can't imagine he'd be happy with me dragging monster guts and bloody weapons and muddy guards into our bedroom, or brewing stuff that could blow up next to his desk." Geralt lets out a noise that's partway to a laugh at the thought. "But he's got no problem with me in his bed." 

"I see, but..." Dandelion frowns. "His Majesty isn't cruel to you? You understand why I ask. I know the direction of the empire has changed in recent years, but the name Emperor Emhyr var Emreis is - I am trusting you to keep your promise to allow me to speak frankly without being executed, Geralt - not a name the average person would associate with kindness or compassion, to say the least. They'd associate it with - remember, Geralt, I am your friend and you would not betray me with a beheading - conquest and ruthlessness, to understate it. Additionally, I've heard stories about your history with His Majesty." 

"Short answer, no, he's not cruel to me. Long answer, no, but it's complicated." Geralt looks back out into the distance again. "Thing about Emhyr is, he's a guy who learned his lesson. In a big way. He's a guy who got fucked up throughout his whole life and then got enough power to do whatever shit he thought was justified to achieve certain ends, and some of that shit was pretty unforgivable. If you told me ten years ago I'd marry Emperor Emhyr var Emreis, I would've told you you're crazy and the bastard can shove his whole empire up his ass. We _have_ been through shit, and it was shit I couldn't get over for a long time. Not until he changed." 

"But," Dandelion ventures, unsure if he's pushing too far by asking when he's shocked Geralt has told him this much already, "His Majesty _has_ changed?" 

"Yeah. A lot." Geralt's eyes are a little tense at the corners, and Dandelion can tell it's not easy for him to talk about this. "Long story short, Emhyr's got reasons for everything he does. And when those reasons aren't good enough anymore, when he didn't think the ends justify his means, he stops doing things. What he thought was justified started to change, because _he_ started to change. Started looking at things differently. When Emhyr picked Ciri to take over from him, he knew she'd handle things a lot differently than he did, and then he had to square away all the wars and conquering with giving the throne to his daughter. Daughter who wanted to make peace with everybody, no less. His choices were to start looking at things her way or pick somebody else, and like hell was he going to pick somebody else. When Ciri gave him a piece of her mind, he took it into account. And when I gave him a piece of mine, he took that into account too. Ciri and I made him answer for a lot of shit. I wanted to make sure he'd do right by Ciri, and so did she. Ever tried to hold the Emperor of Nilfgaard for atrocities and recalibrate his moral compass? Only works if he _wants_ you to. And Emhyr did. Before too long, he wanted it more than anything." 

"Oh." Dandelion doesn't know what to say. Finally he comes up with, "And he loves you?"

"Yeah."

"And you love him too." 

Geralt smiles again, the tension in his face loosening. "Yeah." 

Dandelion's world is shifting. 

The moon is rising higher in the sky, its light casting everything into sharper relief, and the garden feels like a very different place than the one Dandelion stepped into halfway through the sunset to wait for the man he thought destiny had placed into his path for him to have and to hold, to cherish and to keep. The palace grounds feel different as well, no longer a backdrop for the love story he thought was playing out, but a place in which he's very much a guest, one who's now barely welcome and never really belonged. Dandelion wonders if this is the reverse of how Geralt felt whenever he came to Nilfgaard - feeling the imperial palace go from a place he was an uncomfortable guest to the backdrop of a love story. His and Emhyr's love story.

"Do you miss being out on the Path?" Dandelion finally asks. 

"Yeah, sometimes. Still can't believe I settled down, some days. Never thought I'd get the choice. Witchers don't settle down. We weren't made to be cooped up," Geralt says, honestly. "Easy to get restless here, with all the court bullshit and ceremonies and rituals. Gonna be honest - I hate them all. But there's more for me here than there is out there." 

Dandelion asks the thing he really has to know, the thing all his assumptions hinged on. The thing that was perhaps the most wrong of all. "Would you go back to the Path if you could?" 

Geralt shakes his head. "No. Could if I wanted, but I don't. Adventure and freedom's nice, but a family's nicer. Daughter following her dreams of changing the world, husband running half the continent, home besides a crumbling old keep full of ghosts and bad memories. The Path's rough. Goes like this: you get mauled by monsters, get cheated and cursed out, duck a lot of stones and bricks thrown at you, put up with assholes trying to kill you like it isn't stupid as fuck for humans to take on an armed witcher. Get reminded all the time that you're not human, and treated like shit on the bottom of somebody's boot. Save people's asses and get hated for it. Do whatever you can for coin, and when you're desperate, fuck dignity. Bleed and starve and freeze through the whole thing. The Path wears you down after a while. And shit, bard, I'm old. Should've been killed by something a long time ago. My body's fucked up, doesn't witcher as good as it used to. Wouldn't work well to camp rough for months at a time with bones that hurt when it rains. I still go out and hunt when I want - difference is, I got somewhere to come back to. Somewhere that doesn't hurt. Don't need to go back out to the Path. My Path is here." 

And in that moment, Dandelion shatters.

Dandelion's songs were wrong. His assumptions were foolish. His dreams of their future together, his hopes for what they could have together and what they could be, were nothing but ridiculous flights of fancy. His belief that he could sway Geralt into his arms, lure him away from his husband and his daughter and his palace and everything he has to roam the world with a bard, was pure delusion. And Dandelion sees now how unbelievably selfish it would have been, had he succeeded. He can freely admit it would have been selfish to take Ciri's father away from her, and grudgingly admit it would have been selfish to take Emhyr's husband away from him. And seeing those things hurts. Admitting them hurts, possibly more than anything has hurt in Dandelion's life. Dandelion was an idiot, and he was an idiot in front of the entire Imperial Court of Nilfgaard. In front of the Emperor. In front of the Empress Ascendant. In front of the Emperor Consort - but most importantly, his friend - Geralt. Dandelion feels like he's falling as his visions of their relationship, of their future, of their happiness, crumble under him. 

Dandelion is falling. 

"You okay?" Geralt asks, quickly putting his hand on Dandelion's shoulder and holding him in place on the bench, looking deeply concerned. Dandelion doesn't say anything as Geralt inspects him closely, then sniffs him for some inexplicable reason. He isn't sure what he would say. What he even _could_ say. Perhaps there isn't anything. Perhaps this is the point where Dandelion finally understands that he's said more than enough over the past few weeks, and it's time not to say anything at all. "Got all pale and unsteady all of a sudden. If you're not feeling good, let's get you back to the palace." 

"Yes, thank you." Dandelion gives Geralt a smile, the hardest smile he's ever had to force in his life. "I'd like that very much." 

Geralt drops Dandelion off outside the door to his suite with a quick "feel better", then heads down the hall as quickly as he can without looking like he's running away. It was pretty clear Dandelion didn't want company, and especially not Geralt's. Geralt's not an idiot - he can be oblivious, as this whole bard incident proves, but even he can tell what happened there. Dandelion didn't suddenly come down with some physical sickness at the exact moment Geralt crushed his dreams. No, that'd be lovesickness. And, shit. Geralt just broke the bard's heart. He broke Dandelion's heart. 

The thing is, Geralt didn't see that coming. Didn't think they were at a point where he _could_ break Dandelion's heart. Dandelion might've confessed something in the garden the other day, wasn't totally clear, but it seemed more like a hypothetical thing. And Geralt figured if it wasn't hypothetical, it was probably some mix of Dandelion enjoying the court's attention and getting sucked into this muse situation and at most wanting to spend a couple hours doing things they couldn't talk about in polite company. Bards have a lot of passing fancies, and Geralt knows this because Dandelion told him that himself. But, fuck. This went deeper than Geralt thought. And he really hurt Dandelion, both by being oblivious and by not listening to the bard as much as he thought he had. Geralt wanted to apologize, but he figured the best thing he could do was help Dandelion save face. Maybe he can tell Dandelion he's sorry sometime in the future, once the whole rejection thing isn't so fresh. But for now, the kindest thing is to leave him alone. 

But, shit, Geralt didn't think Dandelion knew so little about him. He should've listened closer to those lyrics. He tried, but some of the details slipped by him. Or, a lot of the details. Apparently, they were the details that should've clued him in to the fact that Dandelion had no idea what his life was like. Not all the lyrics Geralt caught were correct, but that's bards - they make stuff up, they exaggerate, they tweak things for a better story. So when Geralt heard something off he just figured it was a bard being a bard, doing the bardly things that bards do. Then again, the whole _bard being a bard_ reasoning is what made Geralt think Dandelion didn't have a crush on him, so. Geralt clearly doesn't know anything about how bards work. Turns out, Dandelion wasn't the only one who made some assumptions that got them both into a pretty uncomfortable situation. 

Geralt should figure out how bards work, before he gets himself into trouble with another one. He'd ask Dandelion to teach him, but, fuck. Unless one of the ways bards are different from other people is that nothing changes between them and the person who broke their heart, he and Dandelion might see some shifts in their relationship. Geralt didn't just break Dandelion's heart as a man to his suitor, he did it as a muse to his artist, and the way he was dismissive of Dandelion's music was probably worse than the romantic rejection. He's tempted to go back and apologize to Dandelion, but Dandelion also told him bards need time alone to _be morose and wallow in the agonizing cruelties of life_ , and Geralt thinks what he did there might qualify as an agonizing cruelty of life. So he can work off what little bard knowledge he has. 

If he's honest, Geralt is feeling a little morose too. Dandelion's different from anybody he's met since moving into the Imperial Palace, with a kind of gaudy and saucy flamboyance that just doesn't exist here. The nobles and scholars and staff in Nilfgaard's Imperial Court aren't Geralt's style, at all. They're stuffy, they won't joke around with him, and they can't or won't see him as an ordinary mutant rather than the Emperor Consort. Dandelion might've put Geralt on a pedestal, but he doesn't see Geralt as untouchable like almost everybody within the palace walls does. Hell, Dandelion sees Geralt as so touchable that he'll openly hit on him and paw at him. That's pretty admirable. Even Caldwyn and Stefan and Oskar still have some guards up around Geralt, and they've spent years stripping him naked while getting covered in his blood. Dandelion didn't just let his guard down - he never really had one in the first place. And maybe that's part of why they ran into trouble, why they weren't actually on the same page, but it was nice. Geralt doesn't want to lose what he and Dandelion had, and he especially doesn't want to lose Dandelion because he hurt him.

Fuck. Geralt hopes he didn't fuck things up for good. 

But maybe he didn't. Bards apparently aren't immune to heartbreak, but Dandelion seems resilient. At the very least, he's determined as hell. So maybe things won't change too much. Maybe if Geralt gives Dandelion time to get over what just happened in the garden, they'll come out of this with their friendship intact. Geralt would get it if Dandelion doesn't want to stay friends, but maybe he'll want to. Geralt hopes he will. 

Geralt's already got his armor and swords on, still has some of his adrenaline going, and is mentally prepared to fight something tonight. He's what Ciri calls witchered up. Luckily, he knows exactly the people to fight. 

There's a small group of Nilfgaardian Army soldiers, the best of the best, that have been designated as Geralt's training companions. The seven guys have been specially chosen for their exceptional strength and speed and trained to fight a witcher, as best as any human can. Geralt calls them the Imperial Asskickers, which they find funny and military command does not. Geralt likes them because, other than Ciri and Emhyr, they're the only people in this forsaken place who are willing to treat him like a witcher. They're housed near Geralt's private training grounds and are used to being snatched up at all hours of day for a trip there. So none of them are surprised when their evening games of backgammon are interrupted by the Emperor Consort of Nilfgaard knocking on the door of their barracks in full witcher gear and saying, "Want to try to kick my ass?" 

It takes the whole group of them to properly exercise a witcher, so they quickly get geared up before an impatient Geralt drags all of them out to his private training grounds to spar. They've been trained in a lot of different types of weapons and combat styles, so fighting with them is always a good time. Sometimes Geralt has them bring spears or axes or shields or shoot arrows at him - all dulled to the point of near harmlessness, because some spoilsports in Imperial Security decided that a witcher wasn't allowed to lose blood while keeping in shape just because he happens to be the Emperor Consort - but today, he wants a good old fashioned sword fight. Practice sword fight, since he has to swap his regular weapons out for near-harmless ones to make sure he doesn't kill anybody, but a sword fight nonetheless. Once he's got the squad assembled in a nice wide open area of his training grounds, the space strongly illuminated with torches to keep the mutant from having an insurmountable advantage with his night vision, Geralt fixes his ponytail and then gets into a fighting stance. "Come and get me, motherfuckers." 

Sparring gets Geralt's mind off everything. It gets his mind off the court and his husband and his daughter and the bard and his age and his jobs and his royal responsibilities and anything that isn't the pure adrenaline and concentration of a fight. The stakes are low, with the way no real harm would be allowed to come to him, but Geralt likes to pretend he could get killed. He orders all seven of the soldiers to attack him at once and then throws himself into it, slashing and striking and parrying, holding back less than usual. It feels good to fight something, especially something besides a monster. The Imperial Asskickers aren't as difficult of a battle as Eskel or Lambert or Ciri - though Geralt doesn't see his brothers as much as he'd like, and even as Emperor Consort he'd get killed by Imperial Security if he faced off against the Empress Ascendant with so much as a practice sword - but they've got a lifetime of strategy and combat training, so they still pose a challenge. And even if Geralt likes to pretend it's a life or death battle, it's nice to know deep down that it's not. They're not trying to kill him, and he's not trying to kill them either. 

Once Geralt's got all the guys tired out, hunched over and panting for breath, he's worked out what he needs to work out. He's winded too, and it's hot out. He drops his sword and wipes his brow with the back of a gloved hand, wincing when that doesn't help too much. "Fuck. Let's go inside. Could go for some mead." 

They head back to the barracks and gulp down a strong mead, and Geralt makes them all play Gwent. He tests out his new and Ciri-improved deck on them, and provides them with verbal descriptions of his redesigned Emhyr var Emreis cards that they find a lot funnier than Emhyr var Emreis did. Somewhere along the line he discovers the guys have a bottle of vodka, and helps himself to it with a promise to replace it with ten more. Geralt doesn't usually drink with them, and he's never played cards with them before - he saves that particular form of torment for Caldwyn and his attendants - but once he settles into it, he wonders why he doesn't really hang out with them. And then his mind drifts to Dandelion, and he remembers. Even the Imperial Asskickers have a wall up with him, and they're always going to. Just like Stefan and Oskar. Just like Caldwyn. 

Even if the guys will fight Geralt and mess around with him and now drink and play cards with him, there's always a line they don't cross. A step they don't take. They might not show it, but it's clear that a few of them are a little tense at the thought of beating the Emperor Consort at Gwent. Not terrified like Caldwyn and his squires and attendants were, to the point that Geralt had to purposely lose several matches to break them of the fear that something horrible would happen to them if they won, but tense nonetheless. Contrasted with Dandelion, who trash talked Geralt through a game of chess and then beat him without a second thought and laughed in his face, the barrier is even more obvious. Dandelion barely knows what a verbal filter is, and completely disregards lines of propriety. Nilfgaardian Army soldiers are always going to think of Geralt as their superior, the person they're here to serve. They fight at his whims, drink at his whims, play at his whims. Geralt always makes it clear they can turn him down, tell him to fuck off if he shows up on their doorstep too early, but he knows they won't. And that taints the fun a little.

Fuck, Geralt hopes nothing will change between him and Dandelion. 

But the night's nice anyway. Fighting, drinking, playing cards. Three of the things Geralt loves most. When Geralt heads out of the Imperial Asskickers' barracks two hours later sweaty and satisfied and feeling the alcohol, which ended up being quite a bit more than a simple mug of mead, he feels lighter than when he first showed up there. As he begins the trek back to the Palace, it occurs to Geralt that he should make sure somebody let Caldwyn know everything's okay. Geralt dressed himself in secret and snuck out in case the _dire and unfathomable peril_ to Dandelion was coming from inside the palace - which, turns out it was, just not in the way he expected - so Caldwyn probably freaked out when he discovered Geralt had disappeared. Caldwyn's got his ways of finding out where Geralt is and what he's up to, but he's not omniscient, and Geralt's been doing enough sneaking around tonight that it's possible the information that he's safe and accounted for hasn't reached his chamberlain's ears. So Geralt should have somebody deliver the message to him in case poor Caldwyn is in an anxiety spiral, convinced he's let the Emperor Consort wander off and die. 

After that, Geralt will complete his evening doing another one of the things he loves most: spending time with his husband. Even if it's just sitting in the same room as Emhyr while he does his boring Emperor stuff, it will be enough for Geralt. Any time he gets to spend with Emhyr will make him happy, because Geralt loves him. He never would've expected to love Emhyr var Emreis, especially not as much as he does, but life's a funny thing. Somehow Geralt ended up here, so in love it sometimes scares him. But it's too late to take his heart back now, and he wouldn't anyway. Because no matter what they've been through, and no matter what a rough road it was to get here, Geralt loves Emhyr. He loves his husband. 

Emhyr is perusing a report on the political climate of a town in the north of Nazair at his desk in his sitting room, hoping a reprieve from the dark and crowded environment of his personal study will relieve the claustrophobia he began to feel as evening slipped into night, when Cirilla enters the room. Cirilla has been granted permission to visit his and Geralt's apartments without request or announcement - save for when both Geralt and Emhyr are there together, as there are some things they should ensure their daughter does not see - but does not often use it. Emhyr looks up from the papers quickly. "Cirilla," Emhyr says, but decides against adding, _what a pleasant surprise_.

"Papa." Cirilla smiles at him, then seats herself on one of the cushioned high-backed benches in the middle of the room. Emhyr notes how her posture has continued to evolve throughout her training. When she first arrived in Nilfgaard she sat much like Geralt - loose, informal, with an air indicating she was ready to leap into action should the need arise. She still has that air of battle-readiness, but now sits up straighter and more rigidly without seeming uncomfortable. Geralt underwent a similar shift, and although his posture is still much more that of a witcher than an Emperor Consort and Emhyr does not expect that to change, the difference is noticeable. Emhyr chose long ago to pass no judgements on Geralt's demeanor, but he is quite satisfied with Cirilla's. "Have you got a moment?" 

"Yes, of course." As Emhyr gets to his feet and walks over to join Cirilla, he discovers his tired body has stiffened even further over the past motionless hour, and feels his age quite distinctly as he sets himself down on the identical settle across from her so they can speak eye-to-eye. "You know as Empress Ascendant of Nilfgaard you are to be granted time with me whenever you would like. And, of course, as my daughter." 

"I know," Cirilla replies. "But you're busy. I didn't want to interrupt." 

"As Empress of Nilfgaard, you will outrank all you meet with. And should you meet a ruler in the North or East over whom you have no jurisdiction, you will still have far more power than them," Emhyr says. "You must get used to making statements, not requests." 

Cirilla furrows her brow. "I won't behave with entitlement. I've said this before." 

"You have. I still believe your philosophy to be a benefit," Emhyr says. "Nonetheless, you must treat your presence as an honor, not an imposition. And your wishes must be phrased as directives, not pleas. Through further training and experience, you will come to understand that both your subjects and foreign rulers want the Empress of Nilfgaard to behave in such a manner. You may view this behavior as entitled, but it is quite the opposite. Upsetting the expected balance of power in such interactions will be to the discomfort of others, as well as, eventually, yourself." 

"If you say so. The subtleties of imperial interaction is still a topic I don't understand well," Cirilla replies. She does not seem fully convinced she will ever understand, which, to Emhyr, is a positive quality. She will rule her subjects benevolently and form alliances peacefully. "Alright, if I am to behave as you suggested - Emperor Emhyr var Emreis, you will join me in your sitting room for a discussion of my directives for you." 

Emhyr nods. "As you wish, Empress Ascendant Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon." 

Cirilla keeps a straight face for a moment, then it softens into a smile as she giggles. "Alright, enough of that. Papa, there's something I want to talk about with you." 

Emhyr notes with approval that, even while gentler, her words were still a statement rather than a suggestion. "You have my ear." 

"It's about Geralt," Cirilla says. 

"Go on." Emhyr finds himself leaning forward, despite the way his bones creak and his spine immediately misses the support of the back of the settle. If the topic is Cirilla's other father, Emhyr's own husband, it must be serious. Cirilla pauses for a moment, carefully considering her words. Emhyr tells her, "Speak freely and without hesitation. You need not fear causing me offense, and should you misspeak, it will not be held against you." 

"Thank you, Papa." Cirilla nods. "Well, if I'm speaking frankly, Geralt is lonely. And he's bored. You might've noticed he's been getting into trouble and danger lately - well, more than usual, I know he's always getting into trouble and danger - and that's why. He's been fueling rumors about the Bard in Residence Dandelion's feelings toward him, and asking Commander van Nergens about potential hunts he might go on." 

"He has been doing _what_?" Emhyr asks, his tone firm but not sharp. 

"Fueling -"

"I do not care about that," Emhyr says, and immediately regrets interrupting Cirilla. "I apologize, Cirilla. I did not intend to be dismissive. I will treat your speech with more respect. My intention was to save your breath, as I care not about the rumors. I care about the _asks_." 

"He wouldn't like me telling you this, so he can't know you heard it from me. He'd call it _tattling_." Cirilla rolls her eyes. "But you know these past few years he's been waiting for jobs to be brought to him, rather than seeking them out himself. That's changed." 

"The damn fool," Emhyr mutters under his breath, using considerable effort to maintain his composure and keep his thoughts present, as going down a spiral of irritation and concern for his husband will not be conducive to his conversation with Cirilla. The urge strikes him to get up and walk to a window as he frequently does when something provokes strong emotions within him, but while he has no qualms about turning his back on advisors or generals or nobles while they are speaking to him, he won't do so to his daughter. And so he stays seated. 

"I know. He really is." Cirilla shakes his head. "I'm glad he still enjoys witchering and that he wants to help people, but he knows anything critical enough to call for the help of the Emperor Consort will already be brought to him. He's decided to override the judgement of military officials and put himself in danger that they've deemed isn't worth the risk to him. He would never allow me to do that, since he used to tell me witchers shouldn't go looking for danger unless they need coin, but as usual, it's different when it's him." 

"The damn _fool_." Emhyr clenches his fingers, feeling a spike of aggravation towards his husband. This time he does ease his painful body off the settle and stalk over to the window, not wanting to subject Cirilla to any display of ire that might make her uncomfortable or, worse, lead her to believe she is the one he is frustrated at. He looks out the window at the courtyard several stories below, hoping the sight of the nature might calm him. Predictably, he can see nothing. Geralt, with his feline eyes, likes to gaze down at it and tell him how beautiful the garden looks at night. Emhyr will take his word for it, as the sight of vague shapes under silver light is not all that striking to him. Geralt claims he can see his fish in the pond below, and Emhyr is uncertain whether to believe him - even after five years of marriage, he cannot tell what Geralt is simply making up about the biology of a witcher.

Because that is what Geralt is. A witcher. And Emhyr should have been more cognizant of that. He was aware Geralt was bored and lonely, as anyone in his position would be, but he hadn't been aware it had gotten so bad. The rumors regarding the bard's affections and hallway performances were harmless, if irritating, and so they had registered only as an indicator of Geralt's need for amusement. Stirring up the court for fun is not unusual for Geralt. What Cirilla has told him, however, has gone too far. This is not a bit of trouble-making; this is actively seeking danger. And it has gone too far because Emhyr has failed to stop it. Or, perhaps, even pushed it across the line. This is his fault. He should have known to what extremes a bored and lonely witcher would go. In fact, he did. He _knew_. 

Emhyr closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath as it fully registers to him that this is his fault. And then he returns to his seat, taking his time finding a comfortable position on the cushions as an excuse to not yet look up at Cirilla, because he finds himself oddly afraid of what he might see on her face - judgement of his moment of temper, accusation of the pain he has caused her father, and her own pain at witnessing it. Finally he says, "- is me. The damn fool is me." 

"I won't argue with the Emperor of Nilfgaard," Cirilla says wryly. Emhyr knows it's her lighthearted way of saying _you're right_. "I'd been meaning to speak to you about Geralt for a while, but you and I were both busy - and the fact we couldn't even speak about him says a lot about the situation. This is my fault as well. The other day he held me and comforted me while I was upset, and I realized how much I missed him. And then I realized that part of why my training has been so stressful is because, just like your work, it's come between me and my family. I've let it, too - just like you, I haven't fought enough for time with Geralt. I want to make that right, and I want you to make it right, too." 

Emhyr doesn't hug Cirilla. Geralt hugs their daughter all the time, but Emhyr has not ever done so during the years they've been reunited. The idea of hugging her crossed his mind perhaps once or twice, but their relationship is such that he assumed she would find it as strange as he would and dismissed it. He wonders for the first time if, perhaps, that assumption might now be wrong. Emhyr reaches out his hand, and Cirilla takes it and holds it. It feels unusual, but not unpleasant. 

"Geralt would not, and could not, blame you for your absence," Emhyr reassures her. 

"He doesn't blame you either," Cirilla replies, squeezing his hand.

It hurts Emhyr to hear how willing his husband is to forgive his neglect. "Perhaps not. But he should."

"He couldn't, and you know that," Cirilla says. 

"Then he is wrong." Emhyr shakes his head. "I have had many chances throughout my life to choose my priorities. Sometimes I have chosen correctly, sometimes not. Often, it has not been clear which. This time it is clear, and I have not." 

Emhyr knows why he has not. Prioritizing correctly is still a struggle for him. And that is because the priorities he should have now go against everything he has lived by whole-heartedly for decades.

Emhyr's old conditioning is still strong, and even now, he struggles to put any life he might have as a person above the life he has as an Imperator. He did not seize power, expand it, and keep it by seeing himself as a human - he did it by seeing himself as an Emperor. He did not keep himself insulated from the most painful threats and the most intimate betrayals by allowing himself to develop feelings for anyone strong enough to become a weakness, and he did not bring half the Continent under his control by putting anyone else ahead of the Empire. Emhyr did not stay alive by _trusting_. Had Emhyr made it a habit to trust people, he would be dead. Had he made it a habit to care for them, he would be powerless. And had he made it a habit to put others ahead of himself, he would still be a twisted abomination of a beast-creature shivering alone in the winter woods through nightmares about hounds catching his limbs in their jaws and ripping him apart. 

But Emhyr has everything he wants. He has all the conquered territories he pleases, he has all the riches he could dream of, he has massive armies at his disposal, and he has confidence that through some very clever machinations he is not in danger of losing them. And he has a strong and intelligent daughter, a kind and loving husband, and a quiet future in a peaceful vineyard in a fairytale land. Now, the danger of losing the last three things is more immediate than losing the first four, and the thought of losing his family and his future scares him so much more than the thought of losing his power ever could. More than the thought of losing his life. He thought he had accepted that, strategically, he must shift tactics, as the old ones do not serve him in his new aims. But accepting something and living in accordance with it are very different things, and Emhyr is used to living in ways that ensured his survival. He never had the chance to live in a way that would ensure love. 

"Through you and Geralt," Emhyr says, "I have come to understand that, when a ruler has a family, it is their responsibility to retain a part of themselves that they can give to that family. This is one of the most difficult lessons to learn. I have had more than enough time as a father and a husband to apply it, and yet I have failed. Unlike you, I can take time away at will, but have allowed myself to feel I could not do so - even as I tell you an Emperor or Empress is to treat their presence as an honor and make demands. I hope you learn from all of my failings, but this one in particular. Though I suspect you will not have to, and that will make you a better ruler than I." 

"I _hope_ I don't have to," Cirilla replies honestly. 

Sitting there with his hand in Cirilla's, Emhyr allows himself to feel the way the ache of his longing for Geralt has become the cold and weighty reality of what he has done. Or, rather, failed to do. He allowed himself to grow so distant from Geralt that he was no longer able to properly judge that distance. Now that he has gained the perspective to estimate it, it seems unbelievable that he could allow himself to drift so far. Geralt is the person who knows him most intimately, the person he has revealed everything to, the person he can let his guard down around, the only person with whom he can allow his composure to slip. The only person with whom he can be Emhyr, and only Emhyr, a human rather than an Imperator. And yet, he did just the opposite. Now that Emhyr is aware of it, the size of his blind spot on this issue is truly appalling. He _knew_ this all was a problem, and he _knew_ Geralt was suffering, and yet it required his daughter sitting him down and lecturing him for him to realize just how serious it had become. 

Cirilla has, throughout the odd process of forming their new familial connections, been the one to bridge the gap between Emhyr and Geralt. She has softened their positions toward each other, and helped them reached epiphanies about the other on their own. When Geralt first arrived in Nilfgaard he decided that his daughter being Empress Ascendant meant he no longer had to bow to Emhyr or use his royal title, and Emhyr used Cirilla's expected offense at her other father being ordered to grovel as an excuse to cover up the fact that he did not want Geralt to. When Emhyr extended Geralt an offer to stay, he claimed to do so in fulfillment of Cirilla's wishes. And when Emhyr stopped fighting his developing feelings for Geralt, he told himself that it would be best for their daughter if he opened himself up to the possibility of a relationship with her other father. When Emhyr and Geralt were not growing closer through the vulnerability caused by the various injuries and poisons and pains sustained by Geralt, they were doing so through Cirilla. It seems that, once again, this will be the case. As it has been all along. 

And there, finally holding Cirilla's hand for the first time since she was a child with wide green eyes soft from their blindness to the darkness of the world, Emhyr cannot believe he ever let her other father drift so far out of his reach. Or, for that matter, that he never truly brought his daughter into it.

"You should blame me for my failure to be more than a ruler as well," Emhyr says. "Because I have made time for you, but I have made time for you as Empress Ascendant and not as my daughter." 

"No, Papa, I understand," Cirilla replies. "You're training me to be an Empress, and that means very much to me. You searched the whole Continent so I could succeed you. If the future of an Empire is at stake, it makes sense for me to be primarily your heir. That is what I came here to be." 

"Have I given you the impression that is still the case?" Emhyr asks, and the feeling grows colder and heavier as he realizes just how badly he has failed Cirilla as well. His daughter still refers to herself as _primarily his heir_. It is true that he did seek Cirilla out to give her the title of _heir_ , her birthright. And it is true that was the foremost priority in his mind when he hired Geralt to do so. But it was not the only one. And once he met Cirilla again, he realized his relationship with her as a daughter was equally important. And yet, it seems like he has not properly conveyed that to her. Emhyr does not convey things like this in words, but he had assumed he had conveyed it in actions - clearly, he has not. "In that case, I have not given you enough." 

"You gave me a whole Empire," Cirilla says. "You gave me the opportunity to change the world. And you gave me your trust. I can't express the value of those gifts." 

Emhyr is quiet for a while. Determining what information to divulge is an important skill for a strategist to have, but though he has had decades of practice, he still struggles to employ it in his personal life. Now is one of those times. 

Cirilla, to her credit, does not become impatient. She allows her eyes to roam around the sitting room, looking at the furniture and paintings and bookshelves that she has already seen on many occasions, and Emhyr knows she is doing it to give him time to compose his thoughts. 

Finally Emhyr says, "Shortly after Geralt first arrived in Nilfgaard, there was a night he came into my study. He was inebriated. He told me I had been, to quote him, _a terrible fuckin' person_ and _a terrible fuckin' father_. He ranted at me about decisions I have made, things I have done as an Emperor and things I have failed to do as a father. But I understood he was asking questions, hoping he could make peace with my answers. I gave him those answers, after an interlude to allow him to sober up. My actions as Emperor I provided justifications for. My treatment of you, I did not attempt to justify. I left it to Geralt to decide whether my reasons for my actions as Emperor justified them, but I knew nothing could justify the damage I have caused to your life. He asked whether I was giving you my Empire out of guilt for all of those things. I told him guilt was worthless in comparison to making amends, and we reached an understanding. On another night, we shared a bottle of wine and he reminded me again of my failings, before expressing the same sentiment as you - that an Empire and position of Empress was the biggest gift you could be given. But I understood then, and told him, that no price could be put on the gift of a father." 

"Papa," Cirilla says quietly, and her grasp on Emhyr's hand has tightened. Her voice is unsteady. "I didn't know that you... you and Geralt never told me about those talks." 

"Those were not conversations for you to hear as our daughter," Emhyr says. "They were conversations for Geralt and I to resolve that which needed to be resolved before I could truly _become_ your father, not just the man who fathered you and later had the audacity to re-accept the title of Papa from you without fully grasping the weight of what it meant to do so." 

"And that's why you apologized to me again." Cirilla looks like she's putting several pieces together, and isn't certain what to think about them. "That night a few weeks after Geralt arrived, when you asked me to meet with you in your courtyard and told me you hadn't given me a good enough apology in Vizima or when I first came to Nilfgaard, and asked for a chance to try again. It was because of those talks you had with Geralt." 

"Yes," Emhyr replies. "I understood that I had not addressed several matters properly. Geralt was quite adamant about making sure everything I needed to acknowledge to you and make amends for had _gotten through that arrogant slick-haired head_ , as he put it, and his words helped me to formulate what I hoped was a more sufficient apology. I knew I had said the proper words to him when he asked me whether I was alright, and whether I had too much to drink." 

Cirilla gets up and comes to sit beside Emhyr. Now, her posture is slightly more confident than his own. She takes his hand again, holding it between both of her sword-callused ones, and this time it feels less strange. 

"What convinced me to give you a chance," says Cirilla, "is that each time you told me you wouldn't ask for my forgiveness, because you wouldn't put me in the position of having to decide whether to give it. You weren't trying to absolve yourself of anything, just make amends." 

"Yes," Emhyr confirms. "I will keep the promise I made to you in Vizima that I will never request your forgiveness for anything, past or future." 

"That promise was the only reason I continued to consider your offer after I stormed off during our conversation, rather than deciding I wanted nothing to do with you. I was angry with you, and angry you would dare to try to buy your way back into my life with the promise of power and riches, and to use me as a pawn - or so I thought. I'm sure you recall the things I said to you, and how loudly I said them, so I won't rehash them. That promise was the only thing convincing me I hadn't made a big mistake by meeting with you in the first place, rather than asking Geralt to tell you I was dead." Cirilla looks down at her lap after this admission. It hurts Emhyr badly to hear Cirilla had considered going that far to ensure she never interacted with him, but it is understandable, and he fully accepts that it would have been what he deserved. Finally Cirilla says, "Thank you, Papa. For trying to understand, and making amends." 

"My amends have not been sufficient if I have not made you feel that I have foremost been your father rather than your mentor," Emhyr says. "I will change that. I will make these insufficiencies right for Geralt, as my husband. And I will make them right for you, as my daughter." 

"Let's change things together," Cirilla says, and her voice is choked up in a way Emhyr has never heard before. 

Emhyr is not certain how to comfort Cirilla. Geralt would hug her, but upon consideration Emhyr does still feel that such an action would be strange for them both. Their prior conversations following Emhyr's apologies have not involved such vulnerability, and as Cirilla makes a quiet sniffling noise, he understands she was not yet ready to be fully unguarded with him. This was perhaps due to a need to process her feelings further, and perhaps due to Emhyr's failure to establish a true emotional connection with her, but likely both. It occurs to him that Cirilla likely did not expect such a conversation when she dropped by to inform him he was, as Geralt might put it, _a terrible fuckin' husband_ , and he feels momentarily guilty for inflicting such a heavy topic unexpectedly upon her. But since he should have established such a connection with his daughter a long time ago, it may have been best to do so as soon as possible, regardless of its weight. 

The best comfort Emhyr can give Cirilla is to immediately begin making those changes. 

Emhyr has been seeing these issues as something he will fix _one day_. _One day_ he will give Geralt the attention and companionship he needs, _one day_ he will give Cirilla the gentleness she deserves, _one day_ he will satisfy his duties to the people most important to him. _One day_ But the fact that he pictured _one day_ occurring during his quiet retirement to Corvo Bianco simply emphasizes to what extent he has put his Empire above his family. _One day_ he shall properly attend to those he cares about, once he no longer has the Empire in his way. But it does not have to be in his way. _One day_ is not good enough, and Emhyr can no longer let himself believe that it is. His progress towards fixing things _one day_ must begin now. 

Cirilla looks up and sees a pitcher of water and a glass on a table near Emhyr's desk, and squeezes his hand before getting up and crossing the room to pour herself some and drink it slowly with her back to Emhyr, giving them both space to breathe after the intensity of their conversation. Emhyr appreciates it deeply. He returns to the window, looking out at the darkness falling over the courtyard again, until he hears Cirilla place the glass down on the table. Gradually, they both make their way back to the settles, sitting across from each other again.

"Cirilla. You have always known far more than me, understood far more than me, and had far more empathy than me," Emhyr says. "And so, I would humbly request your advice on how to repair that which I must mend, both with you and with Geralt." 

"And so the mentor becomes the student," Cirilla replies with a smile. Her tone is light and steady once more, and her countenance has changed, as if something undefinable has been lifted off her. "Well, you can do both of those things at once. I'll offer the same advice I came here to offer anyway - what you should do for Geralt. It's very simple, actually. Which is, of course, why it didn't occur to you." Cirilla's voice is teasing, but it carries an edge Emhyr deserves. "You need to court Geralt again. And you can start by taking him on a date." 

"A date," Emhyr says. He considers the words, and their implications dawn on him. This whole time he has been thinking about how to steal time with Geralt between his responsibilities, how to snatch time from the jaws of the Empire, how to just _be_ with him. But just being with him would not have been enough. Just being with his husband is the absolute bare minimum, and doing the minimum cannot make up for deficiencies. Emhyr needs to go beyond the minimum, by far. He needs to not only give a stretch of time to Geralt - he needs to make that time special. 

"Yes." Cirilla sounds both amused and exasperated at the fact that these two simple words were a revelation to Emhyr. "You need to dust off the romancing skills you must have somewhere. Spend an evening making Geralt feel like your Intended. Your taecommst'minne. Not your husband, the Emperor Consort - a man you are courting, and have yet to catch." 

Emhyr nods slowly. "A man I need to convince." 

"Yes. Exactly. Courting is a process, of course. But start with one evening." Cirilla smiles encouragingly. "I know you can do it. You've already successfully courted him once, so you clearly romanced him well enough for him to marry you." 

"That is true," Emhyr says, because he absolutely cannot tell Cirilla that the parts of the courting Geralt enjoyed most took place in Emhyr's bed. Or Geralt's bed. Or Emhyr's bathing chambers. Or Geralt's bathing chambers. Or Emhyr's study. Or the imperial reception room. Or the throne room. Or a rug on one of their floors. Or a hidden corner of their private courtyard. Or a room Emhyr had designed specifically for some of their more complex deviant ideas. Or - "Well. I suppose I can replicate my success. But now, after six years of luxury, your father will not be so easily bought with dinner and wine and a nice set of armor." 

"I think you're overestimating Geralt. He'll be yours for food and alcohol alone. You're lucky no foreign royalty has stolen him from you on any diplomatic trip where they feed him." Cirilla shakes her head fondly. "But... there was something he mentioned to me the other day." 

"Yes, go on." Emhyr furrows his brow in concentration. 

"He said, well..." Cirilla looks like she's trying not to laugh. "You know him. You know how he jokes. I'm not sure if he was joking, but it did come to mind very quickly. He mentioned being brought roses under the moonlight." 

"Roses under the moonlight," Emhyr repeats, brow furrowing more deeply. "That is a bit romantic for him, I will admit, but it is not hard to do." 

"The worst he can do is laugh at you and make fun of you for the rest of your lives together if he was joking, which will make him equally happy." Cirilla does laugh now, soft and quiet, but genuine. At that moment, five knocks sound on the door to Emhyr's apartments in an uneven rhythm. "Oh! That's Lena. I told her to give me that secret signal if my intelligence network informs her Geralt is on his way here, so I can run off. He cannot know I talked to you, that is critical. But I'm leaving on a trip to Maecht as soon as I'm done here, so he won't suspect a thing. Goodbye, Papa, good luck! And... I love you." 

With that, Cirilla dashes out the door. Emhyr stares after her, impressed at how her footsteps make no noise in the hallway despite her heeled boots. A witcher's daughter through and through.

A witcher's daughter who _loves him_. And his own daughter, who has just said those words to him for the first time in her life. 

Could Emhyr cry - he lost the ability decades ago, after he became hardened to pain and suffering after the first instance of torture he experienced and the horrific first year of his curse, then regained it for a brief interlude to mourn the death of Pavetta and immediately lost it again - now would likely be the time he would do so. 

Perhaps, with time, he will once more regain it. 

Emhyr dreams often of the happiness he and Geralt found during their trip two years ago to Corvo Bianco, and the happiness they will find every day of their remaining years together when they retire there. But there is something about Corvo Bianco that is far more precious than the joy and peace and wine: the deep and uninterrupted connection it allowed Emhyr and Geralt to maintain. This connection facilitated the sharing of dark and heavy things as well as light and pleasant ones. Corvo Bianco is where Geralt finally told Emhyr his side of the events that transpired in Toussaint several years ago involving the Beast of Beauclair, and in Blaviken numerous decades prior. Emhyr had not realized the severity of the trauma they had inflicted upon Geralt, but understood that as Geralt's husband it was now his responsibility to assist in healing it. 

Then, Emhyr had done his best to help. He had been gentle and opened himself up to Geralt as confronting and sharing those memories caused him to struggle with ghosts of his past and battle dark and horrible things in his head, relive his guilt over the pain and death and loss he felt he had caused to others. This process was familiar to Emhyr, as Geralt had forced him to go through it himself, but been there for him as he had. Emhyr recalls holding his shaking husband and soothing him with practical but not overly forgiving reminders that he could neither prevent every death nor avoid some, and to his eternal relief, it did reassure Geralt. By the conclusion of their trip, they had reached a far deeper level of intimacy than ever before.

Because, as a husband, that is Emhyr's job: to heal. The situation he faced at Corvo Bianco deeply tested his capability to handle that responsibility, but he would like to think he did so admirably. It had felt good to alleviate his husband's emotional pain. Emhyr now sees _he_ is inflicting emotional pain upon Geralt, _he_ is creating wounds Geralt needs to heal from, _he_ is leaving Geralt to do so alone, and it is agony. 

And so Emhyr will fix this. 

If it's a date Geralt needs, then a date he shall have. If it's Emhyr's undivided attention he requires, he shall have that as well. Anything and everything Geralt wants, he shall be given. Emhyr is not much of a romantic, but he is an excellent strategist. He has spent his life learning the inner workings of both his foes and his allies, determining their strengths and weaknesses, discovering their likes and dislikes, understanding their idiosyncracies, and exploiting all these things mercilessly for his own gain. As he did when he first courted Geralt six years ago, he will put those skills to use in a kinder way by employing his encyclopedic knowledge of his husband to provide him with an experience perfectly tailored to his preferences. 

Emhyr decides he will clear a lengthy period of time of everything but Geralt - as immediate action is required, tomorrow afternoon until the following afternoon should do nicely. The thought induces anxiety, but if Emhyr works even more quickly and proactively than usual tomorrow morning, surely he can complete the most critical things and then delegate tasks such that less important ones can wait and significant ones can be handled without him. He has done so before in equally fraught circumstances, and can do so again. At the moment the most dire matter in his life is his marriage, and so he must treat it with the same focus and importance as a delicate political situation. Mererid will be tasked with rescheduling meetings set for tomorrow and the day after, then assembling a team to procure anything needed for the date and handle preparation and setup for his romantic gestures at a moment's notice. The final component will be to determine those gestures, but it shall be done. 

Emyhr has all the components of success. He has a strategy, a clear path to follow, and the personnel to execute it. Most crucially, he has intimate knowledge of his - the word escapes him for _opponent, but beloved and cherished one_. Perhaps there is no such word. He will also have Mererid task a linguist with having one created. 

Before Emhyr can call for his chamberlain, however, the doors to his apartments bang open and Geralt enters. 

Geralt is dressed in full armor with two of his many swords on his back and a bag of potions and supplies attached to the silver studded belt cinching his metal-reinforced leather tunic, and Emhyr's mind snaps immediately to Cirilla's tattling. He has a cold moment of irritation and concern in which he thinks Geralt must be up to exactly what she informed him he's been up to. As he is not covered in dirt and blood and entrails and being chased by Caldwyn and his squires, he must be heading out on a hunt rather than returning from one. Departing on another unnecessary fool's errand. But Emhyr reminds himself not to think uncharitably of his husband nor immediately ascribe undesirable motives to his behavior, as that has landed them in conflict many times before. So Emhyr looks up at Geralt from his settle and says in a neutral voice, "Witcher, you are looking formidable. May I ask the occasion?" 

Geralt smiles. "False alarm." 

Emhyr notes this as yet another situation in which he would have been unwise to jump to conclusions, and nods. 

Geralt removes his swords from their natural place on his back and sets the sheathed weapons down on the bench Cirilla previously occupied, unfastening the belt holding his bag of potions and supplies and setting it down beside them. Emhyr must admit that Geralt looks very attractive in witcher mode, even moreso when it does not signal any threat to his safety. The Nilfgaardian armor with the Emperor Consort's crest is a visible sign that Geralt rules this Empire at Emhyr's side, and the swords Emhyr had forged custom for Geralt remind him of his husband rambling at length with excitement in his eyes about his design plans for them. In this state it is clear that Geralt possesses magnificent power and skill and strength, is capable of accomplishing unthinkable feats, and has risen far beyond mortal. 

"Like what you see?" Geralt asks with a smirk when he catches Emhyr staring at him. 

Emhyr, unashamed to be caught, continues to stare. "Yes." 

Geralt's witcher attire also reminds Emhyr of the days when the tension was heavy between them and they were still dancing around each other. During Geralt's search for Cirilla there grew to be something erotically charged about the sparks of animosity and the power imbalance in their relationship, something it was clear they would inevitably have to come to terms with the presence of once Cirilla accepted her successorship and invited Geralt to Nilfgaard. Although they have never addressed the fact that they were both significantly turned on by the exchange on Emhyr's flagship in which Emhyr condescended to Geralt regarding his impudence and then threatened the witcher with unspecified but severe harm while mere inches from his face, they do not need to; it was apparent to them both. Emhyr knows Geralt also found that stage of their relationship arousing, because since getting married they have sexually roleplayed "cruel Emperor forces insolent Witcher into submission" too many times for Geralt to not find this dynamic titillating. 

Emhyr continues to observe as Geralt continues to undress, removing his boots first and then his gloves and armor. As much as he enjoys watching his husband strip down in front of him, Emhyr raises an eyebrow. "Shouldn't your squires be assisting you?" 

Geralt rolls his eyes, with a heavy sigh. "Why does everybody forget I'm a fuckin' witcher. I can take off my own sweaty armor and toss it into the corner to deal with it my fuckin' self in the fuckin' morning." 

Emhyr wrinkles his nose in distaste as Geralt does exactly that. "I'm sure you can. I will have your squires called to retrieve your sweaty armor nonetheless." 

When Geralt's stripped down to his shirt and trousers in the middle of their sitting room, Emhyr gets up to walk over to him. Within the time it takes him to reach Geralt, Geralt has yanked off and flung the shirt and trousers across the room as well, standing there in nothing but his undershorts. "Fuck, I'm really sweaty," Geralt complains. "I need a bath." 

Emhyr holds out his arms to him regardless. "You shall have a bath." 

Geralt turns to Emhyr with a gentle smile, and steps into his outstretched arms. He buries his nose in Emhyr's neck and sniffs him, which has become one of Emhyr's favorite quirks of his strangely mutated and extremely endearing husband, then rests his face there while clinging to Emhyr with arms around his waist. Emhyr holds Geralt close and runs a hand over his heavily scarred back, strokes at the marks left by men and monsters who tried to kill his husband but were not strong enough.

"Remember when you used to help me take off my armor?" Geralt mumbles into Emhyr's neck. "When I got injured. Before you started courting me and gave me people to do that." 

"Yes," Emhyr says. While he prefers not to discuss the horrific time he spent wandering the Continent while afflicted with his curse, and would ideally think about it no more than strictly necessary, he cannot deny he gained a wealth of skills and knowledge in the service of keeping himself alive. These include knowledge of armor and weapons, and the handling thereof. Emhyr is a skilled swordsman, though he has been expressly forbidden by Cirilla and his advisors from sparring with his husband under any circumstances; this is to protect both the Emperor himself and the Imperial Couple's marriage, as Emhyr is far less strong than Geralt but no less competitive. "A matter of preserving the lives of my guards. You did have a habit of threatening them when they attempted to touch you, or violently lashing out if you were not in your right mind. It seemed prudent that, were I available, I should assist in their stead." 

"Because I never tried to kill you for touching me." Geralt huffs out a laugh. "Prob'ly cause I liked you taking my clothes off. Don't tell you I said that." 

"I will keep your confidence," Emhyr assures him, in a solemn voice. "I will admit, I was concerned about giving you squires and allowing your chamberlain to perform those duties as well. I am pleased to see they are all still in possession of their lives and limbs." 

"Mhm. I trusted them. Cause you told me I could." Geralt presses an awkwardly positioned kiss to the hollow of Emhyr's throat. Emhyr finds this quite moving. At the beginning of their courtship, Geralt had been so confused to discover he had been given a staff that he marched into Emhyr's audience hall - disrupting an imperial audience - to demand an explanation for the numerous additional people in his apartments, with his new chamberlain in tow. However, within those few minutes, Geralt had already become attached to the young man. They became close within two days, and within two weeks Caldwyn had requested to undergo squire and medical training to better assist his charge. Not only did Geralt welcome Caldwyn's further ingratiation into his life, he accepted his squires and various other staff without much fuss after the initial meeting disruption. Emhyr had always wondered how Caldwyn and the rest of Geralt's staff had so quickly won the favor of his husband, ordinarily the suspicious and slightly standoffish sort. It seems he has his answer.

Finally Emhyr has to point out, "You smell of mead." 

Geralt grunts. "You the one with the witcher senses now?" 

Emhyr makes an expression of distaste. "Witcher senses are not required to smell the amount of alcohol on you." 

Geralt grunts again. "You know how fuckin' much mead it takes for a witcher to get a real buzz? Had to break into some vodka too, and I'm still barely feeling it." 

Emhyr lets out a low chuckle. Geralt's claim that he is barely feeling the drink would be more convincing were he not off balance, slurring his words, and expressing a significant amount of open sentimentality. Emhyr keeps his arms wrapped around Geralt when he says, "Witcher senses are not required to smell the sweat as well as the alcohol. As you have now gotten both on me, I will be joining you in the bath." 

Geralt nuzzles further into his neck. "Wanna do this, though." 

Emhyr runs a hand over the top of Geralt's messy white hair and down his ponytail, despite the additional sweat this exposes him to. "We can do this in the bath." 

Geralt seems satisfied with this compromise, because he inhales deeply in the crook of Emhyr's neck one last time before raising his head from his shoulder and giving him a look that, were Emhyr prone to flattering himself, he might call adoring. Being sniffed is oddly comforting after five years of marriage to a witcher, and Emhyr is surprised to realize how much he would miss something as small and simple as that should he ruin this marriage. Geralt looks into Emhyr's eyes with his own beautiful golden ones, and Emhyr kisses him on the forehead. 

Geralt lovingly strokes his fingers over the white streak in Emhyr's hair. It has been growing lately, surprisingly slowly considering all the stress and exhaustion Emhyr has been under, but a new strand loses its color every so often. With Geralt's enhanced eyesight, he can tell when its boundaries extend by each nearly imperceptible bit. Emhyr truly cannot hide anything from his highly observant husband. 

"You're really going gray now," Geralt teases.

Emhyr frowns. "What of it?"

"Nothing. I went gray a century ago," Geralt says, unable to keep from smirking at his own joke.

Emhyr makes a small noise that passes for laughter, even though Geralt has made that joke many times before. 

Geralt leans in and kisses Emhyr, and it's everything he wants. In that moment, tired and worn down and feeling the chronic deprivation from one of the things he needs most - Geralt - Emhyr once again thinks that, were it possible, he would abdicate tomorrow and retire with Geralt to his vineyard to live out his days by his husband's side. This would have been unthinkable to him not so long ago, as maintaining his power had always been his highest priority, but no longer. He has grown tired, so very tired. But Emhyr loves their daughter - yes, loves her - and so he would never force her to take the throne before she was ready, especially not with the Empire in such a state, knowing she would face the danger and stress that he does. He is working hard to leave Cirilla a peaceful Empire, to give her every chance at a smooth and successful reign, because if he had the whole Continent searched for her so she could become Empress then he will leave her set up for success or not at all. But from this day forward, Emhyr will work equally hard on repairing another situation for Cirilla and Geralt: the bonds of their family. 

"Someday," Emhyr says, after a long silence, "you must teach me to make wine." 

Geralt snorts. When Emhyr raises an eyebrow, he says, "I just pictured you stomping on grapes." 

They kiss slow and unhurried, and Emhyr thinks about how wonderful it will be to feel unconcerned about how much time they have together. What a relief it will be to know he won't have to make the smile fall from Geralt's face by leaving him yet again. One day, Emhyr tells himself, he will retire with his husband to that peaceful vineyard in a fairytale land. He will stomp on grapes, if that is what is required. But tomorrow, he will give Geralt all the company and love he needs, because they cannot wait for _one day_ anymore. Not when all of this is so far overdue. _One day_ will come in due time, but until then, they can get closer to living like it has already arrived. So as Emhyr kisses his husband, he doesn't think about _one day_. He thinks about tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to the #KbasSquad for support and sprints! 
> 
> [wraithproblem @ tumblr](http://wraithproblem.tumblr.com)


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